


Temptation Greets You Like Your Naughty Friend

by collaborativesheriartyparty



Series: To What End? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Flirting, Light Angst, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Texting, These two just can't stay away from each other., jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collaborativesheriartyparty/pseuds/collaborativesheriartyparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because heeding one's best judgement would be boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That kind of talk only adds intrigue to the cauldron of thought...

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not our playground, we just play in it. All characters belong to BBC Sherlock, its writers, etc.
> 
> This is a collaborative work, so paragraphs are separated by POV when necessary.
> 
> Title from the Arctic Monkeys song.
> 
> (This is part of an ongoing series, and starts just where part 1 left off - it can be found at http://archiveofourown.org/works/1172249)
> 
> A BIG thank-you to all that left comments on Part 1. This part's a long one but still in the editing process, so may be slow updating. 
> 
> Without further ado...

**A Few Days Later**

[Did we really - Deleted]  So. Feeling any better? SH

Ankle's alright, how are you?  -JM

Oh, fine. Still alive, at least. –SH

Any reason you wouldn’t be?  -JM

‘Death at the hands of your flatmate’ perhaps.  SH

Catch a bit of hell from the good doctor?  -JM

Something like that.  I’m somewhat under house arrest for now.  -SH

[I hate that guy, no offense. Deleted]  [You're an adult, why should he even have a say inDeleted.]  I trust you thought up a believable story?  -JM

Of course. Simply met an old friend for drinks. Fairly certain he knew I was lying, however. -SH

Jim furrowed a brow at the screen, and scoffed lightly.  "Believable, I said," he muttered; a case would have been a better excuse.  But how Sherlock managed with his nagging roommate was far more his problem than Jim's.  Unless it well and truly kept them apart, which sounded futile, and with unpleasant results for dear John.  Annoying.  

Well, I've a busy week besides, so no loss as to the house arrest.  -JM

[But - Deleted]  Back in the game as quickly as ever, I see. That's good. -SH

That’s why they pay me the big bucks, dearest.  Though I’ll admit to being somewhat distracted.  -JM

Reading Jim's last text, Sherlock tried to suppress a smile from the sheer knowledge that Jim was indeed at least a little bit distracted by the events of their previous encounter. It would be more than accurate to say that the number one thing at the forefront of Sherlock's thoughts was the criminal. Even texting him now was causing that overused cliche of 'butterflies' in his stomach. Of course, Jim could have been distracted by something other than the detective, but it was less than likely.

Oh? Can't afford to have distractions in your line of work, can you? -SH

Not any more than you can.  -JM

My reputation isn’t exactly on the line.  -SH

It could be if I wanted it to be.  -JM

And I did mean not /any/ more - mathematically speaking, we'd have to be the exact same amount of distracted, thus balancing our respective probabilities of screw-ups due to misplaced focus.  -JM

Yes, I know. Has this sort of...distraction ever caused you problems in the past?  -SH

You might be a special case.  -JM

Really? That's a bit unexpected. I'm...flattered?  -SH

Having better dreams the past few nights?  -JM

Oh, yes, you could say that. -SH

Curiosity abounds.  -JM

Let's just say the mist seems to have cleared up. -SH

My curiosity goes unsatisfied, alas!  -JM

Surely your imagination is vivid enough to fill in the blanks, hm? -SH

[You have no idea. Deleted]  Oh, it's been doing plenty of that.  Seems you're never too far from my mind, but that's nothing new.  -JM

I'm afraid I'm having the same issue myself. -SH

Any regrets?  -JM

[Only that it ended. Deleted]  Just from the amount of alcohol involved. And yourself? -SH

Jim smiled, quietly relieved, and considered it.  The other night was progress of a sort - he could be high on it for weeks to come, just knowing Sherlock wanted him.  He remembered it all quite vividly, indeed.  But it could have been more, that night, were he not so cautious and stubborn...well, those things wouldn't change.  Couldn't.  Right?  

Frankly?  That I didn't bring you back with me.  -JM

Sherlock had to hide the mixture of surprise and the slightest blush that graced his cheeks from his flatmate across the table. He suspected John was still a bit peeved from the recent event, and Sherlock was playing along with it, all apologies and favours for the doctor, just for fun. It was most likely harmless, but he certainly wanted to avoid arousing any further suspicions from John. It was difficult, especially when Jim said things like...that. Perfectly sober, or, at least, he should be, and still saying those sorts of things. It confused the living hell out of the detective.

[Perhaps next time. Deleted]  Oh. Well, it was for the best, I suppose? -SH

Just so.  Regret's a wasted emotion, and this particular one's based on something that wouldn't have been wise.  -JM

For your sake or mine?  -SH

Both.  -JM

Well. Regret isn't a wasted emotion if you decide to do something about it. -SH

I'm aware of that - good to know you are, as well.  -JM

Hasn't left my mind since then, to be honest. -SH

Here the criminal had been wisely wavering, and Sherlock still managed to reel him in so easily.  It was brilliant, really, to step and stay back, and let Sherlock do the pursuing.  It gave Jim a very good idea of where he actually stood in the detective's estimation, without having to ask questions that revealed his own conflicts all too well.  Not that those were really a secret, nor did they have to be.  Not when Sherlock was admitting to Jim having gotten under his skin in such a constant way.  He'd achieved it with the crimes well enough, and though he'd always been sure in a simultaneously soulful and soulless way that Sherlock was fascinated, Jim had really never expected it would come to this.  It didn't subtract from the delight in each other, but added to it.  Not disappointing at all to know that he wasn't the only one overwhelmed, and it seemed much easier to remember that, at a distance.  Face-to-face, it was always a struggle.  Winning was losing, losing was winning.  

Must be dull, house arrest.  I'm a little surprised you'd heed John on that.  -JM

Keeps him placated. I could leave if I wanted to. -SH

I should hope so.  Might be able to free up some time, but no promises.  Some of mine were complete boneheads and got themselves caught, so I'm doling out a little more pain than usual this week.  -JM

Of course. I would hate to come between you and your work. Give them an extra hit for me.  -SH

Careful, there, darling, your immorality is showing.  -JM

As if it wasn't before. Just showing my support. -SH

Never said it was a bad thing. ;) -JM

Oh, dear. Using emoticons now, are we? That's so domestic. -SH

I simply couldn't resist.  And 'domestic' is minding the platonic flatmate who mothers you, actually.  -JM

Cute. And I'm allowed out without a leash, thank you. I /am/ an adult, after all. -SH

I know.  And you're hoping I can give you a good reason not to mind him after all.  -JM

Am I? You know me so well. -SH

That or I'm projecting my desires. Probably both.  -JM

A balance between the two, I'm sure. Though, rest assured, I'm quite capable of entertaining myself while you tend to your web.  -SH

I've never assumed otherwise, and am glad for it.  Just a little chagrined that I don't know when I'll see you...  -JM

I would offer to assist you, though that would be a bit hypocritical and I'm sure you wouldn't need it. -SH

There's nothing that says you can't plan the next date.  -JM

I must have missed the 'asking me to go out', but alright. I'll have to do a bit of research, then... -SH

The criminal's smile was suddenly irrepressible.  Of course he was curious what Sherlock might think up - Jim had made a night of drinks, a good chase and snogging in a taxi.  All relatively normal, but for the fact that it was Sherlock.  Who hadn't even huffed at the  terminology of 'date'.  

I was speaking hypothetically, but you let me know what you come up with.  I'm up for anything.  -JM

Just the thought of spending another night with Jim, which would hopefully be a bit more planned out and involve less drinking, made Sherlock grin despite himself. Of course, John wouldn't be too pleased with this information, though it wasn't as if Sherlock had actually mentioned a name which meant he was still blissfully ignorant of the situation, for the most part. Would he have the same luck the second time?

Let's have dinner. Perhaps a film or exhibit beforehand. Something, er, traditional? -SH

It took the criminal a few seconds of incredulous blinking to let that one sink in.  Irene had reported that Sherlock was never hungry when she'd tried; Jim considered forwarding the text to her, just to gloat, but that was just plain immature, and risky besides.  Still, it popped out to him as meaning something special, and it took the fun out of taunting Sherlock about it.  Dinner and a film.  Part of Jim wanted to be appalled at how utterly ordinary that sounded, but knew better.  Any reason to be close to Sherlock...a pang of several different kinds of longing, at just the thought.

I suppose I could find the time for that...  -JM

Sure it's not too /ordinary/ for you? -SH

It could be.  But you're not.  -JM

You certainly know how to flatter a fellow. -SH

I should be careful about that, your ego's big enough as is.  -JM

Is it? I don't think it's nearly as big as it could be. -SH

All evidence points to the contrary, but I'm clearly not opposed to stroking it.  -JM

Subtlety is certainly not your strong suit. –SH

-

He'd smirked at sending it, but a bout of genuine laughter was the result of Sherlock's reply.  Somehow it had happened again, that the world had fallen away, the news and the emails and the calls left to make and atrocities to arrange all on the backburner so long as he had Sherlock's attention.  Dangerous, indeed, for the state of Jim's web.  But he couldn't recall the last time something had made him laugh like that, and it was worth the semi-procrastination.  

I daresay my darling detective has a dirty mind.  -JM

-

Sherlock had to once again hide the red creeping upon his face, though it wasn't so much from embarrassment as it was from...excitement? The thrill of being able to talk to Jim like this? He could just imagine the man's lilt saying such things and it made him exhale shakily.

Yes, well. I blame you. -SH

Oh? Why’s that?  -JM

Everything was fine and dandy and I remained completely undistracted until you came along. -SH

Fine and dandy is dull, ergo I can't apologize for saving you from it.  Besides.  I like distracting you.  -JM

Exactly. Now I'm expected to go back to the fine and dandy, which is less than appealing. If anyone could do it, it's you.  -SH

Well, I don't expect you do anything but be yourself.  If that includes a well-kept secret of a filthy mind, all the better.  -JM

Just some new, very confusing emotions is all. I'll watch that, then. -SH

Conflicted, too, then.  -JM

Of course.  Aren’t you?  -SH

Yes, Captain Obvious, I am.  -JM

Ooh, a bit feisty today, are we? -SH

[We're only going to eat each other alive until there's nothing left.  Please tell me you know that.  Deleted]  Daddy's got work to do. Let me know when you've a night in mind for our grand masquerade as ordinary people.  -JM

Of course, father. I'm looking forward to our next get-together. -SH


	2. One you could never bring yourself to hate.

**The Next Day**

How is work coming along? No murders yet, I see. -SH

Putting the fear of god into people doesn't always require murder, sorry to disappoint.  -JM

But it's much more effective, don't you think? Anyway, I was thinking of a classical concert rather than a film, instead. -SH

Murder can mean hires which can mean plans and money.  There are simpler ways.  A heavy threat and proof you can back it up is usually enough.  And that sounds divine, darling.  When?  -JM

Hm, divine!  Jim smiled, leaning his head back against the porcelain of the bath, and pondered it.  Now, did Sherlock make the suggestion because he was a pretentious little thing, or knew Jim was, as well?  Oh, no, the violin, of course he'd enjoy it more than one of today's films.  Another lovely little detail.  Few were the men of this generation who found their solace in Bach and Beethoven.

And the context was likely safer, too.  There were slimmer chances of pawing at each other at a concert, than through a film both would be secretly tearing apart and bored with.  Sherlock was so smart.  Well, no, nothing about this was smart, exactly...but if he lingered down that path of thought, he'd want to flee the country before letting Sherlock any closer.  The criminal hummed softly to himself as he set the phone on the floor, and reached for shampoo, with an ear out for his text noise to chime again.

-

It was difficult not to feel somewhat satisfied and as if he had done a good job, with Jim's reply. Sherlock grinned, pleased with himself for thinking of this alternative to the rather expected routine of dinner and a date that so plagued boring and ordinary people. It was the first thing that had popped into his head, however, a bit desperate to please the criminal as soon as he could. Taking a bit of time to think of a not more romantic - certainly not - but more enjoyable evening for the both of them. And what luck that such a concert was actually stopping in the vicinity. Sherlock chalked it up to a lucky coincidence, but perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, instead, something that was telling him to enjoy his time with Jim, for however long was possible.

So terrifying. I was thinking perhaps tomorrow evening, if you've already put the fear into god into everyone by then. -SH

-

He toweled a hand dry before reaching back over for the expensive phone, and considered it.  It wasn't all that risky to be somewhere more public, as few could connect Jim's face with his work.  The elder Holmes, maybe, if he had nothing to do but spy on the younger.  Despite that it was thrilling, of course, to know that Sherlock was so eager to see him again, the thrill taking precedence.  The next night was technically possible, until a wee morning hours business call it would be bad form to miss.  Well.  It wasn't as if going out with Sherlock would be a late night.  Not with Mother Watson a factor, and not with any sensible mindset free of alcohol.  Or so it seemed rational to assume.  He remembered all too well how difficult it had been to part ways, the memory giving him a temporarily thoughtful look as, elbows propped on either side of the bath, he tapped back:

What do you plan to tell John?  -JM

Oh, you know. Going undercover for an eight. He'll be fine. -SH

I'm only an 8?  How you wound me... -JM

Oh, please. If I had said a ten, he wouldn't have left my side. And, as you may know, I don't leave for anything less than a seven. 

Therefore, yes, you are an eight. -SH

Just giving you a hard time, dear.  -JM

Ah, banter. Cute. ... :) -SH

Someone's in a good mood... -JM

Is that surprising? -SH

Maybe.  It's charming, at the least.  -JM

Then I'll remember to be my usual, brooding self on our date, then. -SH

You'll still be charming.  -JM

Again with the feeding of my ego. I'm flattered. -SH

Simply telling the truth as I see it.  Or part of it.  Ever conflicted, ho hum...  -JM

Perhaps you require some enlightening. -SH

I doubt it's as simple as all that.  But we could pretend it is.  -JM

Let me help. -SH

-

It felt like the wind being knocked out of him.  Jim didn't know why three simple words should _hit_ him, but they did.  Perhaps it was just Sherlock and the implications.  Continually surprising, this one.  Worth every bit of conflictedness.  Licking his lips, Jim pressed the button to reply, yet his thumbs only hovered for several long moments.  Whatever Sherlock's help entailed, he wanted it.  Some beast of want was always pacing in his ribcage, waiting, waiting...

And how might you go about that?  -JM

Get inside your mind. Clear up the confusing thoughts. Just talk to me. -SH

The hell do you want me to say?  Everything's so obvious.  -JM

If it was obvious, you wouldn't be conflicted. Let everything out for your own sake. -SH

Honey, the amount of time I do not have for that today is almost laughable.  -JM

Then we'll have to make time, won't we? -SH

We don't 'have to' do anything, Sherlock.  -JM

We do if there's things that are troubling you, which there obviously are. -SH

"Fucking Christ..." Jim muttered, and rubbed at his forehead.  The one person he'd trusted to not make things...emotional.  Was Sherlock really past the Game so quickly?  That would be a subtle horror, and disappointing besides.  It touched him too much, that Sherlock seemed to give a damn, and that was dangerous. In his heart Sherlock took precedence, but for the sake of the niche he'd carved for himself in the world, Jim was determined to keep his head on straight.  To never forget who, exactly, he was dealing with.  Smitten with.  

I'm fine.  Better than I've been in awhile.  Let that be enough, alright?  -JM

-

Sherlock sighed softly, staring at the glowing screen with a hint of worry and...concern? He read back over their recent conversation quickly, considering Jim's response. He may have been better than he had been, but it still wasn't as if he was alright. The fact that Sherlock was contributing to that shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, as he certainly wasn't an advocate for sharing feelings, but it still nagged at the back of his mind that he should try to help. Somehow. 

[Why won't you let me help? Deleted]  ...alright. If you insist. -SH

For now, I do.  -JM

I'll leave you to your work, then. -SH

That's for the best.  -JM

'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...' -JM

'Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.' See you then. -SH


	3. Day and Night

**The Next Day**

Still want company this evening?  -JM

Sure you have the time for it? -SH

I made sure.  -JM

How sweet. The concert is at Cadogan Hall and begins at seven. Before that, we can have dinner at a small, discreet Italian joint. -SH

Sounds lovely.  Meeting there?  -JM

We can, yes. The reservation is at six. I'm looking forward to it. -SH

So am I.  More than you know.   -JM

[Could have fooled me. Deleted]  Good. I'm sure you're going to love it. -SH

You’re sweet, Sherlock.  -JM

Oh, I'm the farthest thing from sweet, but thank you. -SH

Such things you say.  -JM

What, you mean the truth?  -SH

You make it sound good.  -JM

Sounding good is completely different from being good. -SH

Don't have to convince me - I know you're a hellion deep down.  -JM

Indeed. Seems as if it only needs a bit of coaxing to bring it out... -SH

Don't tempt me, darling.  -JM

Oh, but I think it would be rather fun. -SH

I know you do.  I remember.  -JM

Yes, well, that'll be for another time, hm? -SH

Not peeved at me about yesterday, I hope?  -JM

Of course not.  It's not as if we're married. You're not obligated to tell me your feelings. -SH

I like showing better than telling.  -JM

Even that is a mystery. -SH

Really?  Even for you?  -JM

No, I suppose not. You are quite expressive in your own right. -SH

Good to know I still present some challenge beyond your vast powers of deduction.  Where's the Italian place, by the way?  -JM

Yes, you're quite the character. About four blocks down from 221B, it's called Angelo's. -SH

It set off alarm bells in Jim's head, that it was so near to Sherlock's flat.  But he simply had to accept it. Sherlock had planned the evening, and if he thought it safe, Jim had to relinquish control.

Six it is.  I'll see you tonight.  x  -JM

-

To say that Sherlock was at least the tiniest bit nervous was a huge understatement. Many factors were contributing to this anxiety, the least of all being his flat mate incessantly bothering him with questions related to the faux case he had come up with on the spot. It seemed like a good idea at the time, with something involving either a pawnbroker or two sisters, and something that was certainly not on his list of priorities at the moment. John should have been used to being left behind on ones being more than a seven, since Sherlock sent him out for anything less than that, yet there he was, asking all sorts of nonsense about why the detective was dressed so nicely and when he should be expected back. Sherlock brushed all of these off with a wave of the hand, only ending the doctor's interrogation with the sound of the door being shut.

Finally, something to look forward to. The evening was supposed to be somewhat special, and the fact that Sherlock himself had arranged the entire thing made it all the more special. And rare, at the least, as he couldn't dream of another time that he had spent so much time into something that really was quite ordinary and mundane. The fact that it was for Jim, all that he was doing it for, was what made him go through nearly all of the websites of the concert halls nearby just to find an ensemble playing the same night. It was something they would both enjoy rather than sitting through an inane plot of an action movie, or worse, a romantic comedy. The very thought sent a shudder down his spine as he walked the short distance to the favoured restaurant that he and John had frequented so often.

The fleeting thought occurred to perhaps surprise the criminal with flowers, but just the thought of going in and buying them, then presenting them left a sour taste in his mouth. That would be so expected and Jim would have most likely walked away laughing and that would be the end of that.  Abandoning the premise altogether, Sherlock glanced down at his ensemble, self-consciously straightening the light jacket that, oops, was perhaps a size too small before entering the restaurant. He absentmindedly asked for the reserved table, sitting and making himself comfortable before his eyes darted to the door, watching for any sign of Jim.

-

It only occurred to Jim as he was parking it, that he might have liked to drive the sleek, silver Aston Martin more often.  It'd have been a dream on country roads, a thrill anywhere that wasn't swarming with other vehicles, but one didn't really drive for fun in London.  He never brought the car out for work, as one couldn't really run a discreet business with something ostentatious - special occasions only.  Sherlock would either appreciate it or not, that didn't exactly matter.  What mattered more was that by driving, Jim was effectively cutting off drinking as an option, and eliminating the need for a taxi.  Those two factors had made all the difference before, between clarity of mind and maddening sweetness.  It was his sense of self-preservation refusing to let it happen that way again, even if that sort of recklessness came with its own rewards.   
  
Even armed with that sense of distance, Jim felt oddly unprepared for this little get-together.  Maybe because it had been left to Sherlock to plan it, but more that work had been challenging and dull all at once, in comparison to what awaited him.  He couldn't keep his mind off Sherlock for long at all; while that had always been the case, the many texts had exacerbated it, and he found himself checking his phone more often, just in case there were more.  A constant battle with himself, one Jim was losing in some way as he exited the car and locked it up.  He had a block to walk, shoulders rounded and head tilted downward but eyes out for any familiar faces.  The locale was a little too close to Baker Street for comfort, but Jim couldn't have said so. He was too delighted that Sherlock had taken the initiative, had put theoreticals into motion, had made some small effort.  Knew, also, that if even only a quiet, lonely side of him wanted things to continue down this path, Jim had to make up for yesterday's rebuff.  Sherlock knew Jim didn't trust him, and should have realized that backseat kisses weren't going to change that.  But Sherlock kept trying, and it was sweet.  
  
The criminal had dressed impeccably, though his hair had been slightly unsettled by his own hand while in traffic, and his eyes spoke of a string of late nights.  Well, he couldn't change much about that.  But he straightened up when he saw the restaurant's sign, and attempted to clear his mind.  Just dinner and a concert.  That was simple.  A few hours, tops, get his fix of his precious distraction, and move on.  Oh, sure, because that plan can't possibly get waylaid or thrown off course by the only man who had any real sway over the criminal, no, unthinkable.  Jim was rolling his eyes at himself, and fighting the instinct to call this off even as he tugged the door open.  Warmth, chatter, scents of cheese and bread, downright romantic lighting, these all assailed his senses suddenly as he calmly took them in, but nothing of it seemed real until his gaze alit on Sherlock.   
  
Jim could feel his own tired smile despite himself.  The picture of perfection, which housed a mind few but Jim could guess at, waiting for him.  Oh, but it was stronger than before, the urge to immediately kiss those lips, to make up for lost time and mismanaged aloofness.  It felt almost adolescent, something that pulled at the heart and tried to smother common sense before it could speak evil truth.  Approaching the table, Jim swallowed the eager greeting back. Just _knowing_ he could...it had to be enough for the moment.  He didn't yet remove his coat nor touch the other chair, merely stood there, forcing his mind to accept that they were back to that strange, arresting place known as proximity.  "Well," Jim said softly, as if picking up a conversation that had left off mere moments ago, smiling down at Sherlock, "I made the time." It was an offering and an understatement.  Nothing, no one, could have kept him away.  Not even himself. 

-

Rarely did the sensation of the ill-appropriately named 'butterflies in the stomach' affect Sherlock and on the rare occasion that it did, it usually involved a particularly brilliant case. His line of work often had this effect on him, not that he ever mentioned it but silently relished in the churning feeling that gathered in his stomach. It was the tiniest bit distressing to be suddenly struck with the exact same twisting as Jim made an appearance. Sherlock made the effort to hide his obvious excitement, which may have been peeking through in the form of a smile which was effectively removed after a second. He wouldn't - couldn't show his true emotions, had to give the impression that he was doing this only for Jim's sake, though that was the farthest thing from the truth. It was just as much an anticipation for him as it probably was for the criminal. It barely registered to him that Jim had not yet sat down and had to focus more on greeting the other man rather than on how incredible he looked.

Scrambling to stand, he once again smoothed down his jacket quickly before extending a hand. Was that too formal? It occurred to him that he should have known the proper protocol for this sort of thing, not that he had any experience in it, though whatever information he had on it was certainly not available for recall at the moment. Retracting his hand, he simply decided to stand as well, hands going awkwardly into his pockets. "I'm, er, glad you did," he confessed, nodding. It was the truth, and Sherlock was sure of that. He supposed he could have been worse, perhaps plagued by the feelings of a jealous girlfriend or nagging wife, for instance, but in all honesty, the only thing he was feeling at the moment was quite honoured that Jim had taken the time to spend an evening out with him, especially after all the talks of work and putting fear into his employees. Sherlock would have to take what he could get at the moment, considering Jim could perhaps he called away at any given point during the evening, as he was a busy man.

Thinking of all of this, the detective realised he had oddly been staring at Jim for a minute or so, unmoving. He cleared his throat and slowly sat back down, gesturing for the other to follow suit. "I think you'll like it here. It's out of the way and fairly quiet," he commented idly, tearing his eyes from the criminal, if only for a moment. The sensation was a strange one, being so formal, yet having reoccurring flashbacks of the night in the back of the taxi. It was a constant reminder to himself that history would not repeat itself, that it was simply the two of them having a platonic dinner and night out. The thought was effectively brushed away with the remembrance of Jim's words, and his own, sounding strange at the time but completely normal now. The first and foremost thing was to have an enjoyable time without any distractions of alcohol or vague threats, or, hopefully, at least. He fixed Jim with a poker-faced smile to hide any possible waverings of his actual feelings that may have been able to slip through.

-

If the criminal was paying the right kind of attention, he might have surmised that Sherlock in his hurried flurry of movement, was nervous.  Oh, and why shouldn't he be?  It wasn't as if Jim hadn't made every effort to run hot and cold on him, surely not.  Where Jim with his own deductive powers could add up Sherlock's texts, glances, caring, attention - and come to a conclusion - he'd either forbidden himself from doing the math or was too dazzled by the other's eyes to attempt it now.  The last time he'd seen those eyes, there was longing in them, and Jim was very nearly convinced of a flicker of it now.  The taxi memories pushed towards the front of his consciousness, and it wasn't that he ignored Sherlock's hand, but simply didn't notice it, entranced momentarily with just the look on his face.

Jim was glad, too.  He'd arched a brow at the unnerving proximity of the restaurant to 221B, but wasn't about to rag on Sherlock for it.  Sherlock wasn't stupid; if Jim could trust the judgment and careful thought of any person on this planet, it would be his equal's.  And he was too charmed besides, that Sherlock had devised this for them.  Oh, sure, simple, dinner and music, but they were damned unnecessary things compared to Sherlock's presence, those lovely little slivers of the detective's attention that had been meted out via text message, and were now staring him in the face.  Ever so distracting.  It felt like a haze clearing when Sherlock moved, and Jim had to remind himself to move, to sit, to deal with whatever the next hour brought.  

"Out of the way is good...." Jim murmured almost to himself in agreement, his eyes moving from Sherlock's mouth to drift about the room, taking it all in.  It was exactly the sort of place one chose for a date, wasn't it?  Or was it just that Sherlock rarely went out, and so stuck to something he knew?  It didn't matter.  So long as the time passed with no sign of Mother Watson or the Iceman, they'd be alright.  A busboy brought water, promised a return with menus.  Hell!  Why should anyone block his view of Sherlock for even a moment?  Sherlock, who had wound him up and messed with his head all fucking week while he'd been working.  And now they were sitting for a meal like, ugh, sigh, the _ordinary_ people, both stubbornly pretending it was more appealing than the taxi ride that had ended all too soon.  

Sherlock had scared Jim, in wanting to know his real thoughts.  Why should those matter?  They were perhaps the one form of entertainment Jim was unwilling to provide, as their being sought left him feeling strange.  A type of vulnerability he just didn't like, and wasn't about to offer up to Sherlock.  Nor was a real apology for his attitude forthcoming, because Jim believed in tough love.  He fought the urge to cross his arms, relying instead on the cold glass of water as it appeared, fingers wrapping around it, eyes on the drips it left on the table.  "Especially after this week," he sighed, eyes rolling slightly.  There was something to be said for piquing Sherlock's professional curiosity, but the way the brown eyes moved to Sherlock's face, so pointedly, said that maybe the detective was a little bit to blame, too, for whatever duress Jim felt himself under, and couldn't entrust to words.

-

Leave it to the consulting criminal to bring up his work on the psuedo-date. Sherlock supposed it was inevitable, especially considering their week-long taunting back and forth and, of course, the one time Sherlock's jealousy started to make an appearance. It did please him just a little, however, that Jim did bring up what was at least happening in his life, regardless of it being completely work-related. Considering there was a slim-to-none chance of there being any other person off the street that Jim would actually discuss it with, it did seem to be fairly special, albeit strange. It felt a bit of an obligation to pry for details and take advantage of having Jim's somewhat full attention like this, though the need and want of simply being with the criminal far outweighed any dull obligations to be the 'good cop' of the situation and he certainly wasn't going to do the Yard any favours any time soon.

And so it was with genuine pleasure that Sherlock fixed the man opposite with his full attention, which was a bit difficult considering how stunning he appeared. It was not one of Sherlock's primary observations when focusing on one person, especially not in a particularly critical situation where that sort of thing was not at the top of his priorities, but sitting back and casually gazing at the criminal was something he would gladly oblige in. John's sweaters were rather...cute, once in a while, though the detective did prefer his wardrobe and Jim certainly seemed to enjoy the same type of fashion, which was always a plus. It was more than that, though it was a nice addition, but more so focusing on what the man was thinking. This was a challenge in and of itself as Jim seemed to have placed that oh-so maddening poker face on, appearing so cool on the outside. It was a real curiosity for Sherlock to want to understand exactly what he was about, if only to connect with him on an even deeper level. He also realised it would be virtually impossible for that to actually occur, even with the lights low and being in such close proximity. Jim simply had permanent and indestructible shields placed that Sherlock could not even penetrate.

So what was the detective supposed to do? He was, after all, quite adaptable. If the man did not want to divulge his true thoughts and feelings, especially to his equal, then Sherlock would have to simply put the thought to rest and focus on other ways to connect with his favourite criminal, on a level that both of them were equally comfortable with. There was always the physical one, which had its certain appeal, as evidenced by both on their last encounter and seemed to be popular. Intellectual seemed to be placed a bit on the back burner during that meeting, though perhaps it would give them a chance to focus on it that evening. A bit of both seemed to be the right idea, and so Sherlock leaned forward, placing an elbow on the table and cupping his face, fixing Jim with a curious look. "Draining, was it? Hopefully tonight will be a bit more relaxing, then."

-

Draining, yes, that was a good word for it.  A certain wariness remained in Jim's eyes, but even the sound of Sherlock's voice was more entrancing than it should have been, relaxing in its own way - something to focus on other than work.  Jim didn't like that his underlings had incurred his wrath.  He'd prefer they all be smarter, more efficient.  To crack the whip of threats at them was only so entertaining, when Sherlock had texted so often.  Jim's left knee bounced slightly under the table.  Relaxing wasn't exactly his forte, but he had to try.  It was a good thing Sherlock was a persistent man, or Jim's avoidance might have put him off.

Though it was never wholly avoidance.  There was always a twist to it, always a tease, his truest nature shining through to leave Sherlock wanting more.  He was determined to make Sherlock feel everything he felt, for better or worse.  It made more sense than trying to explain any of it.  "Very much so," Jim said quietly, for work wasn't something to boast loudly about in the middle of intimate dining establishments.  "If they all had your brains, I'd have nothing to complain about."  His shoulders rose and fell in an Oh, Well of a shrug, the words continuing casually.  "Doesn't help in the least that you're a distracting thought."  Jim's eyebrows rose, a twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips, one he didn't bother trying to hide from Sherlock.  It wasn't an apology, but it was close.  If it had not been for the texting, Jim might have missed him.  It was the very reality of Sherlock's intentions that had spared the criminal the bone-and-blood-deep longing for the other that was narrowly avoided, and only so justified.  His eyes had rested fondly upon Sherlock's face again, closer than it was before, and Jim kept his back against that of the chair, purposely resisting the urge to lean in.  If that happened, they'd probably miss the concert, and that was just disrespectful of the effort Sherlock had made in planning.  

The busboy slipped menus onto their table as he passed with drinks for the next table over, and Jim reached for one, knowing they probably only had time for appetizers and that was just fine.  "Absurd as it sounds, darling, it's entirely possible that I missed y-"

His word was cut off by the sound of Sherlock's name, and Jim's head turned sharply to spot the source, too curious, too keenly aware of their ill-advised geography.  A smiling, suited man was making his way to their table, a hand outstretched immediately to the detective, and Jim sat back even further in the chair, mildly intrigued.  Jim had a pretty good idea of Sherlock's social circle, and it never hurt to know more, or to simply take the opportunity to watch Sherlock, every detail, from the way the purple fabric of his shirt parted at the top to the suppressed milisecond of annoyance at the interruption; he may not have even been aware it had crossed his features, but Jim saw it, and tried not to smile, peering up at the new little piece of the bigger picture.  "Why, it's been months!  Been staying out of trouble?" the man asked with a knowing smile and a laugh, and Jim had to bite his tongue.  Sherlock and trouble went so beautifully together, was all, and the man who Jim assumed to be the restaurant's owner seemed to know so.  Did Sherlock dine here often?  Alone or with John?  Curiosity poked at his brain.  

-

It certainly wasn't a downside to spending time with Jim when he seemed to have no qualms about pointing out exactly what he thought of Sherlock, which was never a downside, considering his often-pointed out and rather large ego. Of course, Sherlock could dish the compliments out just as easily, as there were so many things about the criminal that were simply appealing. How comfortable it was talking to him was only one of the factors, and how he actually took the time to text Sherlock in the midst of controlling his empire was nothing short of sweet. Sherlock had been endlessly annoyed by others attempting to get a hold of him during a case, the frequent culprits being either his flatmate, brother or friendly neighbourhood coroner, and Sherlock was often none too pleased when any of their initials appeared on his phone while he was busy. Had the criminal's name appeared, however, it would have been a blessing in disguise.

And there was of course the fact that Jim had actually taken off time just to be ordinary with Sherlock, if only for a few hours. It was touching, even considering that Jim could only have been doing it just to placate him for a while. In which case, it was working. He returned Jim's smile, appreciative for the compliment, which was then followed by another, albeit not directly. It took a hell of a lot to distract the great and organised mind of Jim Moriarty, after all, and if Sherlock was simply a blip in his thoughts, that was good enough for him. Even if the criminal was becoming much more than simply a blip to the detective.

Sherlock was just starting to think that perhaps it would be a night full of sweet nothings being tossed back and forth when the name of the restaurant in person called his name. He didn't exactly freeze, though it wouldn't have surprised him if a look of annoyance came across his features. Although he had made the reservations at Angelo's, he wasn't exactly counting on said man to make an appearance, though it just now occurred to him that he really should have considered that in the first place and, soon after, should have made a back-up plan in case this very situation happened. Sure, it was cute when he and John had come in, as there was nothing really serious about the two of them and it was all a bit of fun, pursuing a murderous cabbie and all that. But Sherlock was here on an actual night out, which he could very well not reveal, least of all to a man with Angelo's volume. Not very practical at all.

Fixing Jim with an apologetic smile, he leaned back in his seat and turned his attention to the owner, taking his hand with a tight smile. "Causing some of it, I'm afraid," he answered, which was not far from the truth, considering he was sitting across from the main provider of the chaos. Sherlock was a bit hopeful that Angelo's warm welcome wouldn't take long, lest he inadvertently make Jim uncomfortable, hoping to shake him off rather quickly whilst still being polite.

-

Sherlock didn't have to apologize for happenstance, but it was sweet that his smile tried to.  Jim was smiling, too, privately savoring this rare opportunity to watch Sherlock in public, to pretend for five seconds that it could be normal that Jim had wormed his way this far into the detective's life.  Trouble, indeed.  The burly, smiling man loomed over the table with a good-natured air, and knew Sherlock well enough to know, it seemed, that he often found trouble.  Fascinating.  Even so, if this was a place Sherlock frequented, the friendliness came with its own potential peril.  Wouldn't do to give the nosy pet more reason to institute 'house arrest'.  

Angelo took Sherlock's words as a jest, and with a raised brow turned his gaze to Jim, smiling still.  "Oh, I don't know, he looks alright to me," Angelo joked with a chuckle as he turned back to Sherlock with a knowing smile.  Beneath the table, Jim's foot shifted forward, and the toe of his shoe pressed over Sherlock's to discreetly capture his attention.  If introductions would be necessary, so would be an alias, and Jim tapped one out now in Morse he hoped Sherlock felt: one short press, two long ones and another short, P.  A short immediately followed by a long: A.  Finally one long press, T.  Short for Patrick, his middle name and the first thing that came to mind, but Angelo's eyes were already making a quick appraisal of the table, and Jim didn't bother spelling the rest out.  "I'll bring you lads the menus myself," the restaurant's owner said with obvious pride in doing so, "And take good care of you, so long's you promise to behave yourselves."  He gave a broad smile and a wink as he turned away to go get them, and Jim wondered idly what the story here was.  

"Behave ourselves, hmm?" the criminal murmured, amusement written all over his face, once Angelo had departed.  The man returned shortly after with four small menus under an arm, and a lit candle in his hand.  He set it between them on the table and Jim was having immense trouble hiding a smirk.  How utterly _romantic_ it all was.  Adorable, really.  Angelo armed them each with a drink menu and one for dinner, inquiring in Sherlock's direction whether they needed anything just now.  Jim thought him a charming host, as food service professionals went, and was all smiles as his eyes grazed the drink menu - Christ, no.  Yes, but no.  "Coffee would be divine," Jim pitched in, determined upon sobriety, for it would be all the better to really appreciate the evening, and leave no room for mistakes or misinterpretations.  

-

Oh, the potential consequences of actually going out and talking to people. And then helping said people to clear their name and in the process, somehow become friendly with them. Any other night would have the detective chatting away idly with the bombastic restaurant owner, but on such an important night as this, Sherlock was increasingly becoming more regretful that he had chosen this of all places. Anywhere else would have guaranteed them anonymity, free to chat about whatever and do anything they wished. The next time he frequented the restaurant with John would surely have Angelo making comments, even if offhandedly, about his newest companion. Sherlock liked Angelo, or at least tolerated him, but he would drop him like a hat if it meant that John would find out about this night.

The larger man did not press, however, and Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as he walked away with the promise to take care of the pair. He had to chuckle as recalled Angelo's words for Jim, a judgement simply by glancing at him. How wrong he was, though Jim did put on quite the act and looked quite clean, at least to the unsuspecting eye. No arched brows or dark, billowing coats at least to signal the trouble he caused as opposed to the innocent and subtle way he actually committed the crimes. He remembered the doomed old woman's voice from their first game: ‘He sounded so soft...’

It was lucky for them that the criminal was always thinking ahead for the both of them, and Sherlock was grateful when Jim caught his attention secretly under the table with improvised Morse code. Under the stress of the moment, should Angelo have asked him about the man, there was the possibility that Sherlock could have revealed the criminal. What a fiasco that would have been, and it would have all been the detective's fault. The crisis was averted as Angelo was more focused on what they were going to dine on rather than who they were. He leaned across the table ever so slightly, intending to apologise before the owner returned and began with a "sorry" before being cut off.

Leaning back and softly groaning in embarrassment, Sherlock watched as Angelo set the candle down in the same display as when he first brought John here. Jim must have been eating the entire situation up as he looked on from an unperturbed location. Idly noting that Jim had not even bothered to glance at the drinks menu, Sherlock decided to follow suit and play along. "Tea for me, thank you," he ordered, willing Angelo to leave them, if only for a minute or two. 

-

By driving, Jim had lessened the risk of things getting out of hand; perhaps Sherlock had done the same by choosing so familiar a place.  Jim wasn't bothered by the interruption, nor by the candle.  Indeed, there was a smirk playing across his lips as the restaurant's owner moved away at last to get the drinks.  Which left them as close to alone as they could be in a small place half-full of people.  The table felt like a small world unto itself, almost overwhelmingly so.

Jim's gaze drifted over the menu but inevitably found its way back to Sherlock's face, more interesting even than the prospect of food.  He could feel the work week fading away, as it had when they'd spoken via text, but that was different, wasn't it?  Jim had managed to be so cold, and it was hard to tell yet if it had bothered Sherlock.  Obviously not too much, if they were here now.  And while Sherlock had unsuccessfully pressed for Jim's real thoughts, the criminal had only had time to allude to what the detective's might be.  Two unreadable men trying to read each other, and likely thinking all the same things.  There was something rich about the tension that simmered just below the surface.  In some ways, Jim feared Sherlock - or at least how much he could come to matter.  Had come to matter.  And it was nigh impossible to look at Sherlock now and not think of the taxi, the press of his lovely hands.

He straightened in the chair, drew his leg back to himself so as not to bump under the table, and licked his lips before speaking.  "Well, can't beat the hospitality," Jim observed casually but softly, not wanting to voice the obvious concerns about discretion.  "And what will we be listening to tonight?" There was no way of keeping the pleasure out of his tone, amused and delighted that Sherlock had bothered.  And it was a better thought than the texts, which had left Jim feeling blank, not at all clear-headed, and with a sense of inexpressible things.  Things Sherlock wanted to get at, that Jim felt worth protecting.  Could Mr. Deduction tell from the warm glint in Jim's eyes that all the distance was just business?  

-

Finally free of the restaurant owner's intimidating yet bumbling presence, Sherlock inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as he was once again alone with the criminal. It was strange, the instant feeling of satisfaction as the two of them were there with only each other's company, that came over the detective. He wanted to be the sole recipient of Jim's attention, if at least only for the moment. It would have been virtually impossible to always keep the man's attention, could never compete with his underground empire. He must have fared as some fairly impressive competition if Jim was willing to take off to come and at least humour Sherlock, and the detective was more than glad to spend time with his favourite distraction.

Digging into the criminal's psyche had proven to be a failure, though Sherlock was somewhat expecting that. Jim was revealing, though he gave away only what he wanted to, and drawing anything else out would be like pulling teeth, and Sherlock was certainly no psychologist. He may have been able to tell instantly the signs of an emotion, so gratuitously offered to him by the Woman, but reading them and understanding them was an entirely different matter. How Jim felt about Sherlock was not a mystery - his increased pulse and dilated pupils in the back of the taxi were more than telling - it was about Sherlock figuring out how to cope with his own feelings about the criminal that was the real enigma.

He idly felt Jim's leg retreat from his own, instinctively reaching out to regain contact but stopping himself before doing so. Physical contact in public was probably not the best idea, and seeing as how there were no drinks involved, there was no excuse for it now that they were sober. Did there have to be an excuse, though? There would be plenty of time for that later, anyway. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, as if Jim was able to read his wayward thoughts from across the table and straightened in his seat.  "The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra," he answered, giving a smile now that the topic of conversation had shifted to something more innocent. "They've just returned from a tour overseas." Sharing something that they both enjoyed was something he was looking forward to. "Excited?"

-

Sherlock's smile completely gave away that he was proud of the choice - not in a smug way, but that he knew Jim well enough to know how good such a night sounded.  The criminal mastermind smiled appreciatively, absorbing the question.  Oh, the orchestra was nothing beyond his means, but it was the sort of thing that Sebastian couldn't be dragged to, and Jim only bothered spending time with so many people.  That Sherlock had picked this because he loved it, and seemed in his own secret way hopeful that Jim would too, was as exciting as the event itself.  Sherlock truly gave a damn whether he enjoyed the evening.  Wasn't that beautiful?  Jim had been out to ruin, confuse, generally mess with this man, and was in for a totally agreeable date instead.  It wasn't impossible that they truly shared a mind, or at least a mad mindset where atrocities were attractive things.  Even if John or Mycroft were to interrupt their secret, Jim's darkest thoughts might betray themselves with a smile.  But this...this was what he rarely allowed himself to admit was a goal of the game.  

Jim felt himself smiling back, perhaps softer than usual.  It really was as if the world had dissipated around them, to take in Sherlock at close range.  Blue eyes sparkled all the more for the candle, and Jim had trouble looking away, despite knowing full well that being on guard was the smarter route, professionally speaking.  "Mm, it sounds lovely," he affirmed, voice low and tone hedging on dreamy, almost forgetting himself.  To get lost in music for awhile, with Sherlock at his side...but first, this.  Dinner, conversation.  Minding each other's limits.  Though face to face it was far more difficult to keep the distance.  He jostled the menu in his hand without really looking at it yet.  "What do you suggest, by the way?  We've probably only time for appetizers, but that's alright," Jim asked, still quiet, but with a rhythm that might have suggested ease.  Looking at the menu now, it was easier to ignore Sherlock's beauty, and the way his shirt opened at the top, and try to remember the difference between calm and cold.  Jim could answer every single one of Sherlock's serious questions, through behavior alone rather than words.  This night was about relaxing, or at least it was supposed to be.

Tray of mugs in hand, Angelo emerged from the back of the restaurant, and couldn't help but wonder at Sherlock and his company.  Sherlock had only ever come in alone or with his flatmate, and this time, there'd been no qualms or faces made at the introduction of the candle.   _Well, good for him_ , Angelo thought, hiding a grin as he meandered over, and began to set the steaming mugs down.  He decided to be succinct for their sake, because Sherlock seemed a person who could use more happiness and less work.  "'Ere you are, boys," the man said pleasantly as he supplied them with cream and sugar as well, careful to keep his sleeve out of the candle in maneuvering them.  "What'll it be for dinner?"  

-

The low affirmation to Sherlock's inquiry would be something that he would come to relish, and not only because of the way the agreement was delivered, but because he himself had captured Jim's attention for the night. Had even interested him enough to want to come out. Sherlock was almost completely certain that Jim would be pleased to accompany him to the show. The detective wondered if he hadn't invited the criminal along, would he have still attended? Probably not, as it would be purely for his own pleasure. Jim may have indulged in the finer things that made him happy, but he must not have had the time to simply do things any old normal person would do on such a night. Would Sherlock have gone? Maybe, though it would have likely been alone as he knew John's feelings towards his violin playing at late hours of the night would not motivate him to hear more of it, even if it was infinitely better than anything Sherlock was capable of playing. Mrs. Hudson only humoured him with friendly, dull comments and he would rather go with the insufferable forensics specialist than with his brother. In a way, he was thankful that none of the people he knew were very musically inclined.

It just simply gave him more time to spend with the wonderfully impossible man across from him, the same one who had threatened to end him what seemed like so long ago. And only a few days ago, the two of them were begging each other not to go. Perhaps they were the living embodiment of 'slap slap kiss'; the thought made Sherlock smile a bit more. Idly listening to Jim's lovely hushed voice, the first thought of spaghetti popped into his mind, sharing a single piece of pasta as it shortened in length...

"Bruschetta," the flustered detective blurted out, just then noticing both the drinks and Angelo had made an appearance again. "It's, er, light and good for...sharing." Not that he was even sure Jim wanted to share, though that was his recommendation. Sherlock turned his attention to the owner, if only to avoid any questioning or strange looks from the criminal. "No time for dinner," he explained, then caught himself. "Prior engagements and all." Angelo didn't need to know any details, least of all that the clearer of his name was going to take an expert on crime out for a show. 

-

Why was that smile so disarming?  Perhaps because it was rare.  Sherlock was less prone than Jim to smiling at any little thing; where he'd teased Sherlock via text about his good mood, Jim definitely didn't miss Sherlock's 'usual, brooding self'.  If he wanted to see it again, it would only take the right comment, some unsettling threat, which didn't feel at all necessary.  And, Jim couldn't be sure due to the lighting, but he thought a light blush colored the genetically improbable cheekbones.  Oh, so interesting.  It was one thing to know Sherlock had been thinking of him, but to see it play across his face was a tempting joy.  Sharing made heaps of sense to Jim, whose tongue darted along his lower lip - not an unconscious gesture, oh no, completely purposeful - and he nodded slowly, smiling still.  "That's fine..."

He didn't mind the inevitable interruption, if only because he knew it would be the last for awhile.  It was good, really.  The little distractions from the magnetic force between them.  Nothing on the menu was half as delicious as Sherlock, but bruschetta would do; nice and light, and having a fresh pack of spearmint gum in the car made the garlic less disconcerting.  Jim glanced up at Angelo and ordered it, reaching across the table at the same time for Sherlock's menu, which he piled atop his own and handed it to the restaurant's owner with a pleasant little 'Thank you'.  He could be absolutely charming when he wished, which he didn't mind Sherlock seeing, for it was no small part of his success and the terror he inspired in those who displeased him.  People who didn't know better were always surprised when the demons came out to play.  Jim had feared Sherlock might only appreciate the crimes, not this well-dressed silver-tongued devil who could actually behave rather well within the limits of society.  With the right incentive.

But did it change anything between them?  Would Sherlock disregard the horrors, or miss them, or always thirst for more?  It was worth figuring out, and as Angelo took their menus and his leave, Jim glanced down at his coffee.  Hmm, too dark.  His left hand reached for the little pot of cream and poured some in; he watched the colors blend and sighed more heavily than strictly necessary.  "It really will be nice, tonight," he told Sherlock, making a concerted effort to keep his eyes on the coffee, "A respite from all the....blood and punishment..."  Moran had seen more of the blood firsthand than Jim had, but he'd been sent pictures as proof.  Jim still appeared entirely at ease as he put down the cream and took up a spoon, stirring the coffee, but the track of conversation did have an ulterior motive of curiosity.  

-

The fact that Jim was so easily able to completely disarm Sherlock's carefully placed defenses was nothing short of worrisome. Not even major defenses - the ability to remain completely unflappable in any situation, or at least have the illusion of being so, was currently under attack and did not seem to be standing its ground. Someone like Angelo wouldn't have been able to tell anything was askew; John may have been able to detect something amiss, but Jim could have read him like an open book, which was simultaneously good and bad. Then again, Sherlock had the ability to do just the same, clearly noticing the quick appearance of Jim's tongue and focusing on it just as quickly. At least the other man was willing to share; not exactly spaghetti, but it would do.

A 'thank you' tumbled from his lips as Jim retrieved his menu and they were once again alone with their thoughts. For every distraction, Sherlock wished he would have chosen somewhere a bit more hidden, though it could have been a lot more dangerous for the both of them if he had, and not including outside dangers. Though he supposed it was nice, getting a rather exclusive look into how the criminal interacted with the ordinary folks. So far no quick temperamental outbursts or any similar interruptions. Jim cleaned up rather nicely and was evidently on his best behaviour, though that may have been for Sherlock's own benefit. 

Seeing Jim reach for his coffee, Sherlock fumbled about for his own tea, bringing it to his lips and breathing softly on it. The criminal's extended sigh made him perk up, listening carefully to what he had to say. He took a small sip as he considered Jim's statement, still pleased that he was at least looking forward to the evening's main event. "Yes, well," was the start as he placed the cup back town. "I do enjoy not having to anxiously anticipate the next move." Sherlock rested his eyes on the other man's face, smiling ever so slightly. "Though that is always fun. But it's nice to simply indulge in pleasures with good company." And what good company it was.

-

Jim wasn't really watching Sherlock, yet he was: just enough attention paid to keeping an eye out for the reaction he expected.  Yet he was faced with calm, and a pursing of those pretty lips that may have made his heart skip a beat, made his right hand clench the coffee mug briefly.  Bright-eyed interest, leaning forward, a twitch, anything that might have indicated Sherlock wanting to know specifics of Jim's business.  When these didn't happen, his eyebrows rose subtly, dark eyes peering up from beneath them with new interest.  Sherlock was surprising him, just a little, by focusing on the good, the here and now.  Not the seeming gore.  Was it something bordering on affection, or was it that he knew Jim would only tell so much?  He might have been happier that the detective wasn't being nosy, if the words themselves didn't raise a new question in the criminal's mind.  

The word 'pleasures' coming from that voice was extremely distracting, and the smile said that he'd known it would be.  Clearing his throat, Jim leaned back in his chair, and lifted the coffee to his lips.  His expression had gone quietly thoughtful as he sipped, and when he set it back down he eyed Sherlock curiously.  Rather than a question, he made it a statement.  "So you think this...." he nodded to the table, the two of them, "overrides 'anticipating my next move.'"  There was no smirk or accusation to it.  It was something he'd mused over, and as of yet, was undecided upon.  He could have been merciless to Sherlock this past week, if he so chose, but hadn't.  Too busy, or too fond and idealistic?  Either way, the seriousness of the very idea, that the game could be dropped because they had gotten closer, was worth discussion.  He could be everything and anything Sherlock wanted him to, of course.  He knew Sherlock wasn't ordinary, but more human than he let on.  Wanting to protect John was evidence of that, as was the last time they'd seen each other.  Giving over, giving in.  There was much more to give and to take, and rather than accepting Sherlock's offer of help, Jim would draw the truth of it out of Sherlock a different way.  

"Or that it should," he added.  Again, not a question, but a statement Sherlock could either refine or deny, and Jim so hoped that he would, without further prompting.  It was quite a lot to ask of a man who rarely showed emotion.  But given the current calm in the storm, and both knowing that, for whatever reason, they'd missed each other...well, whatever.  Jim knew if he didn't like Sherlock's answer, it would make killing him that much easier.  

-

Oh, Jim was much more perceptive than Sherlock had anticipated on. It was awkward wording, though there was an air of truth behind it. It would drive him mad if he lived constantly worrying about or fearing whatever bout of crime struck Jim's fancy that particular day. Then again, that was technically what his line of work required him to do; perhaps not actively pursue said moves but certainly be wary of them. Whether or not it would be a constant worry after tonight would be a different story. Though, the past week or so after the last encounter had been uneventful and Sherlock had time to get along with other things though there were times where the inevitable boredom did so strike. A healthy balance seemed ideal, though it wasn't as if he could simply tell Jim when it was convenient for him to stir something up.

He leaned back a bit in his seat, if only to distance himself from the criminal to just think. Obviously dinner and a performance wouldn't last forever, though Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted it to. Too much of a good thing would kill a man and it just so happened that Jim provided many good things for Sherlock to enjoy. He took another sip of tea before carefully expressing his next thought. "Of course not. Just that it's a nice alternative." He shrugged, crossing his arms deftly over his chest. "If 'this' overrode it, I'm sure we wouldn't have even had this opportunity, would we?" It was starting to sway into territory that did not make complete sense, and so he tried again, clearing both his throat and his mind. "Balance is good for everyone. You take the good with the bad - in your case, both this and the next move are simply good." 

To ask Sherlock how to describe either his feelings or relationship with someone as complex as Jim Moriarty would be next to impossible. All the detective knew was that he enjoyed the game, the chase that came along with it to stimulate his ever-racing mind. But he also realised an entire lifetime of that would be completely maddening, and that he was only human. Humans enjoyed this sort of...thing, and that was obvious by his eagerness to want to come out with the criminal and enjoy something that could be seen as ordinary, or, at least, something that did not involve anything related to the volatile aspects that made up both of their lives. 

-

The criminal mastermind didn't know it, but his breath was held as he waited, and watched Sherlock closely.  Every word mattered, every gesture, not just the curve of Sherlock's lovely hands against the mug.  It may have been relief he exhaled at the confirmation, which when Jim considered the 'of course not', it was dizzying.  To appear perfectly comfortable with both sides of the coin, with everything Jim could give him, good and bad...yes.  Relief.  Because Sherlock was saying, in a philosophical manner, that he wanted all of Jim.  

It was almost difficult to process.  Jim loved grandeur, extremes, all or nothing! - and yet a balance with Sherlock seemed so natural, and so obviously the answer he'd grasped at but never quite hit upon himself.  Was it practical?  Who knew.  For two rampant overthinkers to dissect this would be to slaughter it, and yet - was it not a mutual feeling?  What Jim saw as obstacles, Sherlock merely accepted.  He seemed able to justify the crossed lines with a distance that Jim had not anticipated, almost artistic in a way, as if seeing all of life as either a very interesting story or a very boring one.  On the same page again, and they hadn't bored each other yet.  Jim was, in fact, increasingly impressed with the almost sterile treatment Sherlock was giving the topic.  He'd have made a fine criminal of any kind, with a poker face like that.  Of course, it could mean that Sherlock simply didn't care what happened between them, so long as they were both entertained.  

For such a carefully unromantic assessment, it made Jim feel awfully romantic.

He'd noted the folded arms that went along with it, the eyes not narrowed but with a touch of ice.  He couldn't help but ignore these things, ruled by an impulse that was all appreciation, Jim's intrigued smile actually reaching his eyes, adding a warmth to them.  His Sherlock, his precious pet Renaissance Man, his darling Thinker, proving his thought processes ever more delightful by the moment.  This wasn't the time or place for his hand to seek Sherlock's, but it wanted to, so he pressed his fingertips into the ceramic of the mug.  Jim's gaze passed over Sherlock's face and lovely neck like a caress.

"You've a beautiful mind, Holmes."

-

If there had been a correct answer, or more accurately, affirmation to Jim's statement, Sherlock wasn't aware of it. He supposed simply telling the criminal in no mixed terms that he only enjoyed the crimes he put out, which would have been a lie and made no logical sense for them to be in this situation. Or he could have said he didn't want the thrill of the chase anymore, also a bold face lie, and Jim would have seen right through it. The truth was the best policy, especially in such a delicate and experimental phase of their relationship. He must have given the desired answer, however, as the other man's whole demeanour changed and a sort of relieved weariness came over his expression. The sudden change in behaviour made Sherlock relax as well, lower his arms and lean into the table a bit more, watching every minute detail that Jim expressed, eyes darting down to watch him fiddle with the mug.

The gesture, coupled with the sudden compliment, made his eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening a bit as he glanced up to meet Jim's. That was definitely not something he was anticipating. It was not the first, but perhaps the most meaningful comment he could have ever gotten. Sherlock recalled John's "brilliant"s and "fantastic"s which were rudimentary at best and expected and even Jim's own repeated mantras of how similar they were, which was in fact true. But this was Jim telling Sherlock that his mind was beautiful, along with his thoughts and essentially saying how he thought of Sherlock intellectually. The words made him glance down quickly, swallow and look back up with more confidence. Yes, a good balance of both whatever they were used to doing, whatever made them cross paths and whatever...this was, was good enough for Sherlock.

He kept his sight focused on Jim as a hand slowly but determinedly found its way to the mug, feeling the warmth before even touching it. Long fingers attached themselves only by the tips to the criminal's hand, content with settling on the outside. "Only if there's someone there to stimulate it...Moriarty." The name felt strange but natural on his lips and he reflected the criminal's smile, softly squeezing the hand beneath his fingers.

-

It was Jim Moriarty's habit and professional asset to toss out compliments where they'd work for him.  This one, however, he'd meant, and watching it leave an impression on Sherlock was a treat, the personification of red velvet cake or something equally indulgent.  It appeared to touch him, and now Sherlock was returning the gesture.  Despite how light the touch, it sent a shiver up Jim's arm - good clothes only made good armor to a certain _point_ , whereas this was Sherlock getting quite literally under his skin.  How perfectly distracting, no less so the sound of his name on Sherlock's lips, along with the entendre of which Sherlock may have been unaware but likely wasn't.  When the pressure of Sherlock's fingers increased, Jim glanced down at the hand on his own, and smirked.  Where had this led them before?  Nowhere that should be shown off in a restaurant where people knew either of them.  

Which wasn't to say that the criminal didn't enjoy it, but he didn't have to _say_ anything at all.  If it weren't for the table between them, it may have been the night of cocktails and taxi kisses all over again.  Even sober, it had the power to overwhelm.  He'd have asked Sherlock what he was doing, almost coyly, but wasn't the answer obvious?  Jim's pupils had expanded, and combined with the irrepressible smirk, his face seemed to suggest that Sherlock may or may not be asking for it. 

 It was a scientific fact that magnets moved towards each other with only the tiniest bit of encouragement.  Anticipation, thoughts, recollections had all had a week to settle.  As skilled as he was at tearing down the world around him, his mind was also capable of building things up too highly.  Sherlock was one of those things.  The touch didn't disappoint, as sweet as the inference that Jim could always be counted on to match or best Sherlock's clever, teeming brain.  Of course Jim knew he could.  Was a little validation every so often so terrible?  Sebastian was a begrudging audience, nowadays, too familiar with Jim's ways to care about the genius plot so long as he got paid.  Sherlock valued his presence and mind in a different way.  The knuckle of his index finger rose slowly, brushing discreetly over Sherlock's palm, other fingers still secure around the coffee.  Entranced was a good word for it, Jim remaining silent, testing how his stare might unnerve or unravel Sherlock, whether it would at all.  

-

The fact that Jim had no indication of any response other than the piercing stare of his dark eyes no doubt made Sherlock practically giddy with excitement, heightened more so because he was the direct cause of it. Whether it was the tongue-in-cheek answer to Jim's lovely and much appreciated compliment or the simple, secret touch of his fingers with the other man's didn't matter; it all added to the sheer glee he was experiencing at the moment. If he was correct, Jim didn't exactly seem like the type of person to not have a comeback to anything said, and Sherlock himself had been so endearingly called the king of comebacks by his dear flatmate. Though, if the look was anything to go by, perhaps that was indeed Jim's own form of comeback, and Sherlock matched the stare, raising an eyebrow bemusedly. 

Maybe the criminal just simply wasn't accustomed to seeing him like this, especially without a hint of alcohol involved. This was all purely the detective, on his best behaviour of course, but certainly not an act. To put on an act just to impress someone as unimpressed as Jim was a lot of the time would be useless and ultimately futile. It showed how changeable Sherlock was as well and hopefully, Jim would appreciate that. If the gentle strokes against his palm in secret were anything to go by, it was probably safe to say he was at least somewhat appreciative. Sherlock quickly stole a look down at their hands before just as quickly returning Jim's stare, pressing more firmly into the hand all whilst smirking in jest at Jim's dilating eyes. Oh, it was most certainly an interesting night to start off with.

Narrowed eyes fixed the criminal with a steady look and his tongue quickly flitted out, darting at his dry lips. Something Jim did quite often that Sherlock had picked up on and it did not go without appreciation. Oh hell, they had a bit of time to carouse before the rest of the evening truly kicked off. "Cat got your tongue?" the detective asked, tilting his head to the side slightly, feigning a look of worry.  

-

Had this been a cartoon, Jim would have been the wolf whose heart beat comically outside of his chest, or so it felt.  His pulse definitely spiked in response to the look with which Sherlock was taunting him.  The taxi came too quickly to mind, Jim's fingers easing off of the mug, hand turning just enough to make circles with his thumb.  Even that much a dangerous display - should anyone see and question the moment, it couldn't possibly be explained away as an act of reconnaissance, of knowing thine enemy.  Or could it yet?  Jim knew better.  He remembered the press of Sherlock's lips against his own, the genuine hunger in it.  If Jim was being played, it was masterfully.  

The thought was a grounding one.  The heat spreading through him was going to make the bruschetta extremely difficult to focus on.  Jim cleared his throat, smirk remaining as he shook his head.  In doing so, his periphery caught sight of Angelo again, headed their way.  Saved, but the detective didn't ask questions without expecting answers.  "Oh, no, no, not at all, darling," Jim drawled, more purr in the words than intended, gaze returning to Sherlock's lips, then crystalline eyes.  "Just giving it a rest," Jim said, eyebrow quirking up.  "For now."  It was a pointed promise, suggesting he had better plans for that particular muscle later.  He hoped Sherlock had gotten them regular seats for the orchestra - if it was a private box, there would be no attention paid to the music whatsoever, and the Royal Philharmonic deserved better than to be ignored.  

Angelo was mere paces away, and Jim eyed their hands, all but entwined.  Common sense and paranoia said that he should shake off the other's slim, beautiful fingers, but he didn't, wanting to see whether Sherlock would withdraw first.  It would be only logical, after all, to hide their curious attachment.  The fire with which they were playing was too bright and hot for the rest of the world.  Besides that, he'd barely touched his coffee before this little onslaught, and it was actually rather good coffee.  The distance of the past week was a reasonable sort of hell.  Had Sherlock been around more, Jim was certain he'd not have gotten anything done.

-

It wasn't often at all that Sherlock actually used what was called charm and flattery, especially in a flirtatious manner, though it was quite nice to coax such a pleasant response from Jim. It was rather easy, though perhaps too easy; the criminal was, obviously but not that unfortunately, changeable. Moody may have been a more accurate but less flattering description of it. One wrong move and he did not want to stick around for what the result would be. Yes, Sherlock could find himself reading Jim without difficulty, but more it was enjoying. There was a need to read every page over and over again until he completely absorbed all that the man offered and, more importantly, what he was actually willing to offer.

For now, it was more than placating to just sit and enjoy Jim's continued grazing on his hand, realising that they would have to disconnect at some point. Sooner rather than later, it seemed, knowing that the appetizer did not require much time to prepare and cook. Sherlock smiled, a genuine gesture, nodding slowly. "That would be for your benefit," was the barely above a whisper response, leaning forward slightly to deliver it. With one last squeeze of his hand and a hidden wink, the detective begrudgingly began to withdraw his hand from Jim's smaller one, lingering for only a second before bringing it back to his lap. As much as it would have been a complete relief to simply be able to enjoy a harmless touch with the criminal, Sherlock knew it was for the best for the both of them to keep it under wraps, at least for now.

The food was a welcomed distraction if not for just a few precious minutes, to regain control over his betraying body, which was beginning to return to a comforting coolness rather than the growing fevered heat from just seconds ago. As much as it was simple for him to read Jim, it must have been just as child's play for the other man to do the same. Chemistry was a damning thing, nearly impossible to have complete control over, but it occurred to Sherlock that it wasn't exactly a bad thing if Jim was both the company and cause of it.

-


	4. We've Got That Spark That Only Lights A Fuse

The change in Sherlock from willfully oblivious to unmistakably flirtatious seemed to have occurred in a matter of days, and fascinated Jim.  It was all his doing, wasn't it?  Stimulating, indeed.  The promise of Sherlock's words sent a flare of heat through the rapt criminal, left him momentarily breathless.  Oh, to know all the things Sherlock had thought, when Jim had crossed his mind recently...the train of thought did nothing to decrease the wolfishness of Jim's smile, but when Sherlock's hand moved away the Irishman straightened in his chair.  

He required a distraction, and fast, from all of this.  Crossed one knee over the other beneath the table, an effort to discourage the Judas of a body part that had begun to express real interest in the conversation.  There were food and music in which to indulge, before anything else, though Jim wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from stealing a kiss at a red light.  Ahem.  The reappearance of Angelo beside the table gave Jim a good reason at last to look away from Sherlock, taking up the coffee to sip at it again as the man set down the plate in the center of the table.  

Angelo had chuckled to himself as he'd walked over; peering here and there to smile at contented customers, but he'd seen Sherlock hand in hand with a man who was most definitely his date.  He might give Sherlock some jokes about it later, but he had good sense not to embarrass either of them.  "Enjoy, gentlemen, and I'll be back round with more coffee soon," he said merrily as he set down the food, and it was then that Jim noticed the tattoo just peeking out from his cuff.  Oh, now that was interesting - not a gang mark but certainly small and poor enough to have been done in prison.  Obviously something the man wished to keep covered, but the pieces were coming together in Jim's head, of how Sherlock might know him and why he favored the establishment.  Keeping in touch with old clients, then.  It certainly wasn't important, but Jim noticed it all the same.  Once Angelo had left, Jim took up a small slice of the bread, finger holding tomato in place, and pushed the plate a couple inches nearer to Sherlock.  He still felt too warm all over, and was attempting not to stare.  His tone was purposely cool, not bored but calm.  If Sherlock had riled him, it was the detective's responsibility to bring his focus back to sensible things.  "Tell me about your experiments," Jim prompted him before taking a careful bite of the slice in his hand.  

-

Playfully bantering about having to rest one's tongue to be limber enough later in the night was all good fun and games, but there did come a time when the two consultants needed to simply take a break from what seemed to be the recent challenge of seeing who could wind up the other more. Not a very difficult task, which was why it was dangerous to play such a game, especially in a public environment. And so Sherlock was somewhat grateful for the arriving food for both his and Jim's sake. As much as it was enjoyable to sit hand in hand with the man and exchange increasing vulgarities, Sherlock's knowledge of such euphemisms was limited and would run out soon enough, and who knows what would happen then, least of all actually making good use and practice of the promises.

A murmured "thank you" to Angelo as he set the plate down was the only attention given to the owner before re-focusing his gaze back onto the criminal. A tiny smile came across his lips as he watched Jim pick up one of the small slices. The thought occurred that he had rarely taken the time to simply enjoy a meal at the restaurant, only stopping in when it was convenient as with the "Study in Pink" - damn John's blog – case, or whenever his flatmate was feeling peckish and the only things that lined the refrigerator were various body parts. It was nice now to actually enjoy the food without having to keep one eye on the street opposite or try to make sense of any pips.

As the plate was passed to him, Sherlock took one of the slices, taking a second to inhale the smell before popping it into his mouth. Yes, it was definitely nice to be able to sit and luxuriously enjoy a meal, albeit one that only consisted of an appetizer but the company certainly made up for it. Hearing Jim's request, he finished off the slice and swallowed before raising a hand to his chin and thinking for a moment. "Well. I was working on some various things involving fingerprints, until John threw away the specimens." A look of annoyance flashed across the detective's face, remembering how badly he had to beg Molly just to acquire them. "And, of course, adding to the ever-growing list of tobacco ashes." He took another slice of the bruschetta, waving his other hand as he rattled off the experiments. "You would think a doctor would be more encouraging involving the human body, but it's always 'Sherlock, don't do this' and 'Sherlock, don't do that'." The detective shook his head in exasperation, shrugging. "To each their own, I suppose."

-

It took a few moments before Jim's focus was less on Sherlock's cupid's bow and more on the words issuing from it.  For at the very heart of things, this was what made the detective different, and worth Jim's time.  It seemed society nowadays was based on stupid people who were very loud.  Sherlock was always after knowledge of all kinds, and kept it quiet until it was useful.  He cared only for sating of curiosity, flinching at nothing so long as something could be learned from it.  That sort of mindset had hardened Sherlock, distanced him from the world, and yet his criminal counterpart thought it gave him an invigorating air.  Whereas Jim was tired and had seen too much, Sherlock would always be hoping to see more.  

In a sense, it was all futile, for knowledge gathered and kept to one brain would die when that brain did.  It seemed incredibly selfish, but Jim understood it.  Minds like that were beacons to each other, after years of nobody else - the ordinary people, the ones like John - paying them much attention.  Most of the world was below men like James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.  It wasn't, really, of course, but they'd both made lives and professions of pretending it was.  No one believed more in each other's respective pedestals, for it only increased the challenge in trying to shake each other down from it.  

Jim ate slowly, savoring the fresh tomato and cheese, and simply listened.  He didn't really want to hear about John, but it did make Jim's genuine interest shine brighter in comparison to the doctor's limits.  He managed to keep a grimace off his face only because he was thinking - theoretical and perhaps undeserved, but he could acquire for Sherlock a small space in where he could work, abuse corpses and chemicals as his curiosity pleased...Well, that would be too grand a present.  But anything that kept Sherlock busy, too busy to worry about what Jim was up to, was a good thing.  And it would probably allow Jim a sneak peek at Sherlock's work...somewhere away from John...well, it was a thought.  One he wouldn't bother voicing but filed away as a Maybe.  He had every means to make it happen if he wished.  Nemeses shouldn't really be in the habit of making presents to each other, but why should they play by the rules?  They had broken so many already.

The daydreams and the food were half-decent distractions from the taunting of mere moments before.  Despite deliberate, careful bites, some tomato juice had found its way past Jim's lower lip, and he patted it with a napkin before resting the fabric upon his leg.  "Well, next time you want to work, I can have John kidnapped for a few hours," Jim offered, too casually to really mean it, a jest between geniuses that he hoped wouldn't hit close enough to home to upset Sherlock.  Obviously it wasn't out of Jim's range of power, and seemed a far less serious offer to make than an extra flat for experiments.  There was some part of him that wanted Sherlock to never forget who he was dealing with.  Jim didn't mean John any real harm at the moment, not so long as he had Sherlock's attention.  

-

The fact that Jim had even bothered to ask about anything personal involving his life touched Sherlock, and it made the entire experience feel even more authentic; perhaps even normal, at least for the pair. Idle chit-chat, mutual winding each other up, dinner and now simply getting past the awkward stage of 'tell me about yourself'. Sherlock would have most likely froze or stood and walked out, perhaps even the former and then the latter. Because that would have been too normal and boring for either of them, something that the couples at the other surrounding tables would have done. The truth of the matter was that the two consultants already knew each other far better than anyone seated around them, even if they did not care to admit it. Their relationship was a lifelong one and, Sherlock hoped, would continue to be so.

He watched with a small smile as Jim patted at his mouth, somewhat surprised that he was amused with such an insignificant moment. Reaching for the final slice he wanted and passing the plate more over to the criminal, he laughed before finishing off the small piece of bread. It was more of a 'haha we both know you could do that but please don't' rather than an encouraging one, for Sherlock knew that as helpful that that would be in times when he really needed the stimulation, such as between cases, he would rather not be the indirect cause for someone's kidnapping for any amount of time, even for a few hours. It was also possible that John would not appreciate being involved in such matters. 

It was a caring thought, nonetheless, but simply that - a thought. "No, no. I just wish he would share my enthusiasm for such scientific endeavours." The detective sighed somewhat dramatically, shaking his head. "Thank you for the offer, though." A strange offer, although it was quite thoughtful, perhaps for different reasons. Jim must have always had an ulterior motive for whatever it was that he did, be it kind or cold-blooded. Sherlock was grateful that the offer just suggested was more of the first kind and less of the second. To cross paths with a man such as Jim Moriarty on a bad day would not bid well for whoever was on the receiving end.

-

Jim was smiling, reaching for his coffee to wash down the bruschetta.  It was good, but they still had some time before dashing off to the symphony.  The only others he knew that might suggest such a 'date' were top-of-the-ladder criminals, ones who'd like the grandeur of the setting, that the music would be loud enough so that their murmurs of plans and bloodshed would not be overheard.  But Sherlock chose it for the music.  That was...well, perfect, really.  

He shrugged off the John idea, for it was (mostly) in jest - there were any number of ways he could keep the good doctor out of the way.  He certainly wasn't above paying women to do so.  "Well, were I your flatmate, I wouldn't mind them..." he said, most casually for such a very strong statement, and brought the coffee to his lips, taking a long swig now that it had cooled.  Garlic and coffee?  Gum would definitely come in handy.  "But if that were the case," he mused, eyes again betraying his thoughts in the way they roamed Sherlock's face and those straining buttons, "We'd never get any work done." 

His pleased little smirk was more teasing than lewd, and Jim set the coffee down and reached for another piece, scooting the plate back towards the other.  "Oh, eat up, you're like a rail." Truth was, Sherlock could probably take him in a fight easy, despite his deceptively thin frame, so it was a good thing the criminal never fought.  Jim just liked too much watching his hands, his lips, watching Sherlock do anything at all.  Of course, living with this gorgeous, brilliant being would be entirely inadvisable for so many reasons.  Yet he still considered John a very lucky man.  

As he started in on the bread, thoughts of John led his eyes to the restaurant's broad windows, scanning the sidewalk and the people utilizing it. No known faces, no big black cars.  Safe enough, this little place, or so he hoped.  He let his mind wander into the side-streets and doorways, the darkened windows as well as the illuminated ones.  Really, anybody could be watching.  He'd take care while driving to keep an eye out for a tail, or ask Sherlock to.  The detective carried himself in a way that spoke of paranoia, danced and threw himself around so gracefully that it suggested he was sure he was being watched, even when he wasn't sure - most of the time.  Tonight he did seem almost relaxed, and Jim felt oddly flattered by that possibility.  Together neither had to explain their stranger thought processes in order to find some understanding - they merely understood.  John might be lucky, but Jim was, too.  

-

A hushed chuckle passed through Sherlock's lips and he found himself nodding along to Jim's prediction. No work, or, productive work would ever be accomplished should the two have the audacity to actually become roommates. Good for the rest of London, perhaps; the same could not be said for the consultants. If Sherlock was actually able to get Jim alone in the flat, it would be next to impossible to let him leave, at least for a couple of days. Having John as a flatmate was actually the best course of action; at times, John drove him out of the flat in pursuit of cases to solve though more often than not, he was the one driving John out which left him ample time for more productive work. Without the doctor around, Sherlock had free reign to do what he wished.

Lately, that involved having Italian appetizers and coffee with a certain criminal, so perhaps having so oblivious a flatmate wasn't such a terrible problem to have. 

Casting a self-conscious peek down at his clothed middle, Sherlock let out a scoff at the remark. "You're one to talk," he jeered, nevertheless reaching for another piece of the bread. The detective stole a quick glance that was downcast from the criminal's face, certainly not going to remark how well the trademark suits fit the man, but the fact not going unnoticed either. They fit Jim like a glove, and one Sherlock would not mind wearing. He finished the bite before continuing the earlier line of conversation. "I'm sure the good people of London wouldn’t mind not hearing a peep from us for a little while," the man said with a cheeky smirk, settling back comfortably in his seat again as he watched the opposite consultant. It was possibly true - Sherlock caused quite a ruckus, and Jim caused it even more so than he. The two of them together caused quite the bang in the city. 

Then again, not much would change should Jim not be able to get any "work" accomplished. There were countless other crimes and criminals standing by to take the spotlight the minute it should appear, though Jim looked the best in its shadow. Sherlock's work was never-ending, though it was always more delightful to have the challenge and what better challenge was there than from someone equal to him in almost every way? 

-

Jim’s brows drew together in bemusement at the seeming compliment.  Was it one?  If Sherlock’s traveling gaze was any indication, yes, it certainly was.  It really was the most hopeless sort of farce, to sit here and behave well, when they could barely keep their hands and eyes off of each other.  His gaze was on Sherlock’s face, as intently as if he might read the detective’s thoughts.  Well.  Jim was a good guesser, at the least, and a tiny, seemingly ever-present smirk tugged up the corner of his lips.  This would be a most interesting night, one way or another.

And Sherlock’s words, as if he were actually entertaining the idea of prolonged cohabitation…that bordered on confusing and enlightening at once.  He had John, so of course it was mere mental play, which if Jim gave it too much thought might aggravate him.  To look at Sherlock was calming.  To know that they could fabricate some communal little headspace of fanciful thought, where no one else existed or mattered – ah, but wasn’t that the case already?  It was for Jim.  The more time he spent around Sherlock, the more he might be convinced that the fascination was just as mutual as it appeared.  He’d dropped off into his own thoughts and curiosity again, and blinked before regaining absolute focus on the moment, licking his lips, lowering his eyes to the table.  “In a perfect world,” Jim murmured nearly to himself, a small sigh to the words, ones he didn’t really want Sherlock to inquire about but that he voiced regardless.  For something to do he swigged at the coffee once more, finishing what remained in the mug and set it down carefully.  Something about the restaurant, so small and so full of people smiling and chatting, was beginning to get to him, and he would feel better when it was just the two of them.  “What time is it?” he asked, fully capable of grabbing his own phone to check but giving the job to Sherlock, as Jim searched his coat pocket for the cigarette pack there, pulling it out with a smile that was clearly struggling to look past the dark things his brain tried to bring to forefront and spoil their time together.  He wiggled the pack between two fingers.  “I know it’s ever so cruel to tempt you, darling, but I just can’t help myself.”

-

Jim's almost whispered tidbit sounded whimsical, and Sherlock could no doubt agree that it would be a perfect world as he regarded the man opposite him with eyes full of wonder and curiosity. Yes, a perfect world where Sherlock could have met Jim before John. How would things have played out then? Would there have been double the consulting detectives or criminals? Or would it have been exactly the same, with Jim on one side of the flat taking clients and Sherlock silently standing over his shoulder, leering and solving each one without disrupting? The daydreams deeply amused the detective and he smiled genuinely, not meaning to appear haughty following Jim's statement but probably coming off as such. In such a perfect world indeed. Imagining one would certainly bring a sadness to the current atmosphere, which was already starting to build in the restaurant. Sherlock blamed himself for picking it and, thus, blamed himself for the current state of it.

The criminal's request of the time made him take his focus off of his wandering thoughts as he pulled out his phone to retrieve the time. It must have been getting fairly late and they were both most likely feeling antsy, though in anticipation of the concert was probably not the attributed cause of it. "Nearing seven," he reported, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and shifting. "We'd better get going, then." He twisted around in his seat to call for their waiter to bring the check, turning back around only to find Jim holding a pack of pure treasures. Staring at the box for a moment and feeling a slight twinge, he faced the man again, smiling sweetly. "No, no, go ahead," he affirmed with a flippant wave of the hand. "You certainly deserve one." Besides, he could always nonchalantly lean his head into whatever way the smoke was blowing. He had never had such an appreciation for secondhand smoke until that moment. "None for me, though, thanks," he continued, painfully aware of the fact that he had oddly enough not chosen to wear a nicotine patch that night. Oh, he would absolutely be kicking himself later. "Are we ready, then?"

-

As much as he hated it, Jim had, on occasion, a difficult time reading Sherlock.  That smile could mean many things, and he didn’t like not knowing, but it meant Sherlock was thinking, and that was always interesting.  All the same, he was glad for the topic change; John was really the only one who could know Moriarty by face, as potential threats went, and they were just too near 221b for real comfort.  Plus…it really was a hell of a car to show off.  Not that these things really mattered, but it was some little display of effort, and the importance that he placed on their…’affair’ was both too strong and too weak a word. 

Every time Sherlock so much as shifted, it was a good excuse to gaze at him.  That it didn’t seem to unhinge or bother Sherlock terribly was delightful.  Jim’s eyebrows did a little jump at the refusal; he hadn’t expected it, though miniscule displays of willpower were well in line with all of he knew of the stunning man across from him. And unless he wanted to admit flat out that he’d brought them specifically for Sherlock, getting to watch him smoke, Jim would have to have one.  Didn’t happen often, and gum seemed far more necessary, but now he was slightly stuck.  Just slightly.  A moment of distraction by means of a busboy – Angelo must have been busy - came by to pick up the empty plate, and Jim slid them back into his pocket.  The busboy shook his head at Sherlock’s gesture for the check, instructed probably to do so by Angelo.  Jim had considered having a word with the large man about his never having been here – he’d have played it just right, too – but as he wasn’t in sight, there was no sense in it. 

“After music,” Jim stated simply.  It wouldn’t do to be late, and there was no smoking allowed in the car.  Of course, if Sherlock had wanted to break that rule, Jim might have allowed it, even if he shouldn’t .  Even on their near-best behavior this evening, there were so many Shouldn’t’s at play, each to be recognized before they were purposely ignored.  What was more fun, keeping Sherlock confused and at a distance, or close enough and belonging to him?  Jim knew that the distinction depended on the mood of any given day;  knew too that if he and Sherlock partook of a cigarette, they’d only end up sharing smoke and snogging against the restaurant’s wall, and being very late for good music.

“Mm,” was a murmur of assent as to readiness to leave, Jim giving his lips another quick delicate pat with the napkin, and wasted no time in departing the table, breaking the atmosphere, all the little teases and touches, that they’d created over it.  All those things that seemed ever only a moment away from taking hold of them, too too easily.  Jim was not a patient man, as a rule, but for when it came to Sherlock Holmes.  And that was alright.  Nearer to the door and thus making it there first, Jim swung it open and smirked up at Sherlock, holding it for him, not bothering with as corny a joke as ‘ladies first’ but certainly enjoying the view as Sherlock passed.  That suit barely fit, good god...The criminal may have been grinning to himself as he fished a keyring from a pocket and followed Sherlock out.  He looped a hand through Sherlock's arm to veer him away from the street, directing him.  “No taxi, I drove,” Jim said smoothly, twirling the keys around his other hand's index finger as he nodded towards the right, the car a block away - only half-conscious of the fact that he'd initiated the practical touch. 

-

Jim's seemingly set schedule as to when to have a smoke struck Sherlock as fairly odd, as he would practically rip one out of the box whenever he damn well felt like it - in the shower, a taxi, Lestrade's office. Or, he used to, and wouldn't mind doing so now. But, as always, the criminal was an enigma to him even when he had a fairly good feeling that he had figured Jim out. He knew he was kidding himself and that he would spend his very last moments still attempting to solve the puzzle of Jim's mind, which he would welcome with open arms. Temporarily moving the thought to the back of his mind, he thanked the busboy for the waived check and followed the other man's lead, fixing his suit after standing up. Ever the gentleman, Jim's show of politeness made Sherlock smile at him, feeling ever more like the lady in their duo.

Diverting his attention to the road, already starting to search out a taxi, Sherlock turned with a surprised look at Jim as he felt the man entwine their arms together. "Ah, going all out, are we?" he joked with a teasing smile, raising an eyebrow. "How gentlemanly." It wasn't meant to be an insult, simply the recognition that Jim had really thought about making the night as good as possible, which impressed Sherlock to no end. He may have been the one to plan the evening, but Jim was certainly doing his best to make the detective's night as well. Subtly glancing over at the lump in Jim's pocket, Sherlock reached over in one smooth step and retrieved the box of cigarettes, never breaking their gait. "So as not to tempt you, of course," he explained with a smirk, stuffing the box into his own pocket which also held their concert tickets. It was a teasing gesture, with an ulterior motive, of course and one that Sherlock hoped Jim wouldn't get too fussy over.  

It was touching, in all honesty, that Jim had chosen to drive at all though Sherlock supposed it may have had something to do with their last little get-together taking place in a taxi. It had been wonderful and terrible all at once and perhaps eliminating that factor would somehow change the outcome of the evening, though for better or for worse the detective still wasn't sure. Though, the good of course being that should things work out, they would no longer have to count down the blocks until the taxi would arrive and instead have the luxury of privacy to themselves. Jim's car looked fairly roomy enough, after all. Beginning to feel a bit warm under his clothes, Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly and attempted to mask the rising red he inevitably knew was beginning to cross his face.

-

Though Jim was keeping a cool, furtive eye on the sidewalk and its inhabitants, Sherlock’s words distracted him, surprised him enough to blink, lips twitching in a smile he’d prefer to hide.  He might have taken a leisurely pace on his own, but kept up with Sherlock’s natural briskness as if it were contagious.  Maybe it was.  Something here was, certainly.  The invasion of personal space surprised him, too, so pleasantly that he laughed.  Sherlock was so very daring to just grab something out of his pocket.  At the mention of temptation and the smirk, Jim’s eyes rolled dramatically up to meet the blue ones.  “ _You_?” he asked wryly, and tsked., playfully drawing out the syllable, “Never.”  It was such a comfortable little moment that the usual alarm bells in Jim’s head didn’t go off, he wasn’t overthinking it, just enjoying the company and that damned devious smirk.  Yeah, yeah, let Sherlock have the cigarettes and feel like he won, just this once.  The cigarettes really weren’t the temptation here, and didn’t they both know it.

It was, of course, a little surreal that they would even bother with a date.  To play at normalcy?  No, neither of them cared.  It was relaxing in comparison to staging crimes, many with so many stages, a lot of work only to let Sherlock dismantle them.  So long as Sherlock didn’t pry as he’d attempted over texts, tonight might continue to be splendid.  That meant Jim must not give him anything to pry into, but it was always fun, putting a mind like Sherlock’s to work.  The results of doing so had not yet disappointed him.  But that Sherlock was willing, interested, even, in taking Jim out for dinner and symphony…it was insurance against this all being some sort of clever ploy.  That nagging paranoia might never leave him, so the less instances of having to question it, the better. 

He slid his arm out away from Sherlock’s of necessity, unlocking the car with the remote and crossing to the driver’s side – gentleman, sure, but Sherlock could open his own door.  The sleek silver machine had black leather insides, and a dash that lit up in a pleasing blue once Jim had slipped into the driver’s side and put the key in the ignition.  The only personal item in the otherwise clean car was a briefcase on the backseat, and the gum he drew out of the middle console and cracked the package open.  Garlic breath was a no.  Popping a piece into his mouth, Jim was again fighting off a private smirk, about Sherlock, and cars.  Glancing at last at the other as the car purred to life, he could’ve sworn Sherlock was, too.  A little rosy around the cheeks, the darling.  Jim gave a breathless chuckle, and shook his head, teeth working at the gum as he gave Sherlock a look of feigned innocence.  “My, but you think loudly,” Jim declared, and despite having started the car, hadn’t yet, damn himself, moved it an inch. 

-

It was rare for Sherlock to ever be impressed with, well, anything and actually show it, but he gave Jim's vehicle a low whistle of approval. It fit the man just right - smooth and clean-cut and interior as black as his heart surely was. Then again, it was Jim he was dealing with here and he could have been entirely biased. Feeling the slightest bit of loneliness as the shorter man unattached himself from Sherlock, he climbed into the passenger's seat with all the elegance of a small child. This was a hell of a lot better than being stuffed into a crammed taxi, and Sherlock's driver was more appealing than any taxi driver he had ever come across. He watched with curiosity as Jim retrieved a pack of gum and self-consciously became aware of his own breath, having to remember to nick a piece when they arrived at the concert hall later.

The criminal's words made him perk up, eager to listen to what exactly he had to divulge. With a scandalized look, Sherlock scoffed in amusement. "Do I?" he asked, acting for the better part of totally vindicated. Jim's words had never rung truer, and even at that moment, he became painfully aware of the thoughts inside his own brain swimming together all at once. Oh, Jim had no idea whatsoever. He fixed the other with a wry smile, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "Then tell me. What exactly am I thinking about?" he challenged, almost softly and musical at the end. It was a trick, as Sherlock himself couldn't give an answer to that at the exact moment. To hear what Jim thought would be delightfully entertaining, however, and the detective waited with anticipation to hear what the other man had to say.

There were any number of possible answers, such as would they actually make it there on time, whether or not Jim was aware of how dashing he looked that night, and the wonder of exactly how much time Jim had to give Sherlock this evening. "If anyone would know, it would be you," he added quietly with the slightest smile, almost teasing in a way. It was the truth, however, and Sherlock was fairly certain that Jim was just as aware of that fact as he was.

-

Jim had left the console open, gum available, distracted by the turn of conversation.  Sherlock seemed pleased, whereas Jim had been hoping that blush would deepen.  Well, there were ways to go about that, ones he’d been casually obsessing over since the start of the evening.  The restaurant was an improper place for it.  Perhaps like Jim, Sherlock teased best when he really meant something, after all.

Neither had put on a seatbelt yet, and Jim could only take so long with gaze darting between Sherlock’s eyes and cupid’s bow.  He knew Sherlock’s mind because he knew his own, simple.  It was very simple.  Which should have, by virtue of ease, made it intolerable.  That the opposite of the case was some cosmic miracle, or cosmic joke, or both. 

It didn’t feel like leaning over, so much as the inevitable pull of magnets, turning his face up towards Sherlock’s.  “But, darling, you don’t really want me to tell you,” he insisted softly.  “Not when showing,”  He cracked the gum, exhaled mint breath that could be felt on Sherlock’s cheek as Jim got nearer, “is better than telling.”  His tone made the statement sound like it was up for intellectual debate, but with wandering gaze and the lips that remained partially parted after speaking, he was definitely toying with Sherlock and the proximity.  Just to see what it would take.  They could afford to be a little late.

-

Although Sherlock really should have been expecting a response such as the one Jim had provided, as it was something he himself would have said, he was happily surprised with the answer given and more surprised in that it was absolutely right. Jim was clever like that – he didn’t simply go for an easy answer. He wasn’t one to guess. No, he told exactly what he knew Sherlock wanted to hear and not anything else. Uttering the words ‘you’re correct’ would have been completely redundant and unnecessary, especially with the way Jim was easing himself over into the passenger’s side of the car.

This man was clearly a tease but Sherlock should have seen it coming since before the restaurant. Of course, he wasn't so innocent himself and yet the best part was that neither of them seemed to care, in fact, both were clearly basking in it. The minty freshness exhaled upon his cheek sent a shiver down his spine and he straightened up in the seat, looking the other man dead in the eye for a split second, attempting to read this wonderfully complex being.

With no hesitation, Sherlock closed the dwindling distance between the two, placing a hand on either of Jim’s shoulders simply for effect. He instantly tasted the mint on the criminal’s lips and unknowingly smiled, aware that the other was in fact still chewing the piece. To compensate, he ran his tongue just over the outline of the other’s bottom lip before pulling away just as quickly as he had begun. “Minty,” the detective stated simply with a cheeky smirk. “Was that enough showing, then?”

-

Ah, that hadn't taken very much at all, which was lovely to know.  The light grip on Jim's shoulders was stabilizing, distancing, controlling, yet with no force in it, a mere reminder of the need to keep their wits about them.  Jim had clenched the gum between his back teeth, sighing softly in appreciation at the swipe of Sherlock's tongue.  On the Irishman's face, a blissful smile looked just a little feral, a barely suppressed urge to lay tongue and teeth all over Sherlock's gorgeous neck.  His long dark lashes batted in a not-completely-fabricated manner, licking his lips as if he could taste Sherlock on them still.  "It is if we want to get there on time," Jim agreed, slipping out of Sherlock's steadying hands and back into his own seat properly.  Should those fine hands return, he wouldn't mind it, but turned his attention to the side mirrors and a light turning red behind them to facilitate getting out of the parking spot.  Fucking parallel, fucking city driving, oh, the things he did for Sherlock and for control.

Jim chewed absently at the gum as he maneuvered them into the ordered queue of traffic, not terrible - they'd probably be good for time.  He considered flipping on the stereo, but if recollection served, the CD he'd last had in here was Lady Gaga, and that was not particularly in tune with the planned entertainment.  Yet he wanted something to amuse their minds, anything to keep the deceptive calm he really wasn't able to maintain around Sherlock. An idea dawned and Jim smiled, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road as he posed the riddle.

"Alright -- a man’s been shot in a car. The car was all locked up: the doors, windows, everything.  Apparently, he'd been shot while sleeping." Jim spoke offhandedly, as this was really the lightest of games, kept his focus on the cars and lights around them, rolling the gum on his tongue between sentences.  "The car was in perfect shape. No bullet holes, no gun found therein. He was also alone. So, how did he get shot?"

-

The reaction upon Jim's face was something that Sherlock would never tire of seeing and was a sight that he would hopefully be graced with more than once that night. He had seen Jim smile for any number of reasons such as meeting him at the hospital and, after, bluffing in an attempt to end both of their lives. Engaging him in a soft, affectionate kiss could now be added to that list. The thought made Sherlock wrinkle his nose as he couldn't remember a time that he had been so warmhearted, for lack of a better word. If the other only knew what he was doing to the detective. Of course, he was most likely fully aware and enjoying it.

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock realized that Jim did have a point. As much fun as it would have been, and he would not have objected, to simply stay and enjoy what little privacy they would have in the car, he had paid a pretty penny to obtain the tickets for that evening. Jim was a very enjoyable source of entertainment, but this was supposed to be about the both of them and Sherlock wished for Jim to be entertained as well. It wasn't an insipid movie or tedious activity that the two would loathe to death - something that John would do should he have taken a date out - it was something they would appreciate together, and Sherlock had made sure of that.

The riddle Jim had challenged him with was a welcomed distraction from his own thoughts, worries about how the night would go. It couldn't possibly go wrong, though it was natural to simply have anticipation about at least impressing the other. Why that was important, Sherlock would never know. Many possible answers passed through his mind, though the passing cars proved to be more helpful than just being distracting scenery. "A convertible," he answered finally, turning back to face Jim after having been staring out of the window. "Either the murderer simply angled it or used a helicopter to snipe him, though that would be more work than needed." He smiled, having enjoyed something to do on the ride up rather than sit awkwardly with the same thoughts running through their respective minds. The approaching building made him sit up and point. "Ah, it's there, on the left."

-

Ah, clever Sherlylocks.  He’d either heard the riddle before, or worked out that the average formula of a riddle was leaving out some small technicality of phrasing, only a matter of listening well and figuring out what it was.  Easy peasy.  Either way, Jim expected a self-pleased smirk, not an elaboration, and he couldn’t help laughing.  “A helicopter,” Jim repeated incredulously, shaking his head.  It was the most unnecessary thing he’d ever heard, making it rather novel.  He exhaled, still shaking his head, and cracked the gum between his teeth.  “It’s a good thing you don’t work for me, your imagination would really sap my resources.”  He gave Sherlock a sidelong grin, all too amused, Irish accent out in full in the unguarded moment.  Helicopter, just to snipe someone in a convertible, honestly…Sherlock was just so precious, and so admiring of unconventional crimes.  For that, Jim was lucky.

He was familiar with the venue Sherlock pointed out, had been there before, but usually on his lonesome.  When work or life pained him, when the whole planet needed to just shut the fuck up, when it was the only thing Jim could stand.  To share such a decadence and haven with Sherlock, well.  Something special.  And he hadn’t even picked it.  He wondered how often his lonely detective attended shows, how many nights they may have just missed each other, or been on opposite sides of the hall and so enraptured as to not notice?  How wistful.  It might have been a good time to voice gratitude for the company, but Sherlock knew.  He’d guessed it at the bar.  Loneliness was something Jim carried, some days as a weight, others as impenetrable armor.  Thanks could come later, in actions rather than words...

Right now the priority was getting inside and Jim rolled the car to a slow stop in front of the valet gang, leaving the key in the ignition for whichever of them parked it.  And if they weren’t careful, there could be hell to pay; Jim slipped the approaching valet a good amount of cash as he accepted a retrieval ticket with a nod, and a look that promised another tip so long as they fucking behaved themselves.  He straightened his jacket and cuffs with a few short tugs as Sherlock’s lanky form emerged from the car, easily the most beautiful creature on the premises, and Jim, aside from an unshakeable pride that he shouldn’t feel over the company he felt he’d ensnared, wondered idly whether Sherlock would opt for one of the pickpocketed smokes or wait.

-

Sherlock must have missed the joke accompanying his answer to Jim's distracting riddle, as he failed to see exactly what was so funny with what he had said. It was the correct answer, was it not? Unless it had been the added detail, a habit Sherlock had unfortunately been unable to break. It came along with his job, after all. Either way, the sight and sound of Jim actually enjoying himself, no less because of Sherlock simply being himself, made him break out into a smile as well as he looked away, wanting to remember the image for a long time. It was rare that he made someone laugh, even if he hadn't meant to, and especially with genuine laughter rather than an undertone of mockery. That moment was just a reminder of exactly why he had planned that night, and why he wanted to please Jim.

The realisation that he didn't really have anyone else to do this sort of thing with struck him as the other pulled into the venue, suddenly very grateful that Jim did indeed enjoy the finer things in life such as classical music. He may not have looked it at face value, and that grating disco ringtone he insisted on using didn't exactly help matters either, but he could no doubt match Sherlock in a battle of both wit and knowledge of music. Engaging in the same battle with John or, say, Lestrade would prove to be completely one-sided and there was another moment that made Sherlock completely appreciative of his company that night. He wouldn't voice it, and wouldn't ask Jim to either; it was clearly evident in the way that both of them carried themselves around each other.

Stepping out of the car and patting himself down once more, Sherlock strode to join Jim at his side, once again noticing the clear height difference and smiling as he glanced down at the man. Turning to face the building, he absentmindedly patted the pocket holding the tickets and cigarettes and pulled the former out, simply for something to wrap his fingers around. A moment later found the detective replacing the papers with the box as he ignored the tiny voice telling him not to before spinning around to face his present company. "Did you bring a light?" he asked around the stick in his mouth, looking fairly guilty and feeling even more so.

-

It wasn’t just that Sherlock was yielding to an obvious temptation; it was the beauty of the simple question.  _I say I’ll burn him, and he asks me for a light…_ If Jim wasn’t careful, he’d fall in love.

He had indeed brought fire, a mini-Bic in trouser pocket - everything had its own pocket so as to prevent unseemly and random pouches in the fine suit.  He drew out the small lighter and immediately flicked it, a silent invitation for Sherlock to lean into the light, rather than relinquish the flame and the hand over its symbol between them.  The light did wondrous things to Sherlock’s cheekbones, and under the pretense of being sure it was lit fully, he could probably stare at the cigarette between those lips forever.  Previously, Jim might’ve tsked, and teased ‘what would John say?’, but John had no place between them.  In Jim’s mind, he had only served as a warning.  A downright pest, trying to keep Sherlock out of harm’s way.  Sometimes harm only meant so much harm, and this night was about he and Sherlock, no one else. 

Jim replaced the lighter in his pocket, and decided he didn’t mind the secondhand, given the source.  “So,” the criminal began, his now empty hand moving to the front of Sherlock’s shirt, adjusting the collar where it had folded slightly.  “Tell me…dearest…”  Jim barely suppressed a smirk as he gazed up towards Sherlock’s face, fiddling with the fabric a moment longer before his hand dropped back to his own side.  “How am I to be sure I’m not just walking into a trap tonight?  Hmm?”  From his tone of voice, the idea didn’t bother him, despite a practiced furrowed brow.  He approached it as half-business, half-tease, but not expecting a serious answer, for behind the layer of apathy, Jim’s eyes were glittering.  The possibility that it was, that Sherlock really was smart enough…maybe, maybe not.  But malevolent enough?  Jim didn’t imagine so, and yet he so liked being surprised.  If Sherlock turned on him out of the blue, it wouldn’t be so out of the blue.  But more than anything, Jim knew he’d be able to gauge much from the detective’s immediate reaction to such an accusation. 

-

Sherlock instantly lit up as he watched Jim pull out the lighter, as he had instantly jumped to the conclusion that there was a possibility that he had only brought the box. Oh, what a tease that would have been, and exactly what Sherlock had needed rather than this. Cupping his hands around Jim's briefly as he eagerly leaned into the light source, he retreated and took a greedy puff, exhaling smoke away from the other's face as common courtesy. Had it been Jim blowing, Sherlock would have stood right in its line of fire, though this was even better. A muddled 'thank you' was given as he finally took the cigarette between his fingers and, with hesitation, pulled it away from his lips.

He watched with a slight smile as Jim extended a hand and fixed his collar. It was nearly too loving, and completely gag-inducing, almost like a wifely duty. It would be a lie to say that he didn't enjoy it, but he basked in any and all attention that was given, and it made it all the more sweet that it was coming from Jim. He doubted that his collar had actually needed fixing but wasn't about to deny it and stop the touch either. The criminal's question made him turn to look at the other with a raised eyebrow and a sort of 'are you serious' look. 

There were any number of possible responses to such a question, the most obvious being that Sherlock himself had planned the night. It would have been much easier to trap Jim had he planned it out, gotten together a vast amount of police force in to help. Unless they happened to be there for happenstance, Sherlock wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. There was also that that would be too painfully obvious a thing to do, so completely boring. If Sherlock had done it, he would have already said something, especially now that Jim had outright asked. Yes, it would be a trap, Jim would be captured, Sherlock would go home and neither of them would have had the best night. No, that would be awful. Though, the man did have a point in asking, as was it not Sherlock's job to be trapping him? How could he be certain?

"Because I've had my tongue down your throat," he stated bluntly yet with a straight face to indicate that yes, that was indeed his answer. He watched Jim for a reaction, as he was sure that that wasn't the answer he was probably expecting. "If I would have wanted to trap you, I would have done it a lot sooner than now." It was the truth and nothing but and Sherlock ended the explanation with another drag from the cigarette.

-

At the brash answer, Jim’s eyes widened ever so in surprise.  The Irishman’s busy mouth paused the idle gum-chewing, twisting up at the corner to hide a smirk, befuddlement, or both.  Of course he adored that there should never be a pointless word spoken between them, but Sherlock’s answer required clarification, and when It was given, of course it made sense.  It was so simple, as was Jim’s quick rejoinder after a beat of, “Oh, right - you rush things.”  There was no disdain in the way he said it, just a matter of fact.  Every bit of mastery that sprang to gory life from Jim’s head, was allowed to come slowly and carefully.  Sherlock was often under crack-the-case pressure, and didn’t have the luxury of waiting.  Rushing was his natural state, as taking time was Jim’s.   He would have used last time, unsure if it would be his only opportunity, to ‘catch’ Jim if that was what he really wanted.  It seemed it wasn’t. 

It was the closest thing to insurance Jim was going to get. 

The night was certainly more enjoyable when they could relax around each other.  If his paranoia withstood or was given ground on which to stand, he might say nothing of it, and merely leave.  As far as Sherlock’s awareness stood, he was willing to drop it or ignore it.  There was certainly lure and reason enough to keep Jim here, with a thoughtful smile that was tight, as if trying to be hidden and failing.  The gum was as helpful as a concealing factor as it was for mint, and he went back to slowly chewing it as Sherlock smoked.  Yes, Sherlock looked just as lovely in these moments as Jim knew he would, cheekbones all the sharper for the inhalations – the song ‘Jealous of Your Cigarette’ came to mind.    His hands slipped into his pockets to keep them from fussing at Sherlock, too irresistible an urge, a few moments of companionable near-silence as concertgoers arrived and got inside. 

-

Did he rush things? The thought made Sherlock stop and think as to whether or not the statement was valid, though seeing as how it was coming from Jim, he was a bit more inclined to believe it. He may have been forced to tell lies, especially being in his line of work, but he had hardly said anything wrong when it came to Sherlock. There was no malicious undertone to the criminal's words and so he wasn't offended by it, simply surprised, as it was something he had never heard before. It was expected for him to rush things - the faster he was able to solve a crime, the better. Hell, even Jim had forced him to rush during their first game together. It was in his nature, he supposed, and it wasn't something he could exactly change. He could perhaps be more aware of it in the future, but rushing was nice, as it kept him from being bored. Things taken too slowly were bound to lose his attention which may have played a factor as to why he was so fascinated by Jim. It was because he was rushed that he appreciated the man.

Another blow off of the cigarette made him turn and face Jim, fixing him with a tight smile. "Only because I'm forced to," he returned with, not meaning it as a bad thing but simply as a fact. He wouldn't have been very good at his job if he took a leisurely speed with his cases, and ones like Jim proved the point. And he would certainly not be complaining about that.

Watching as the hall began to become crowded with the concertgoers, Sherlock took the remainder of the stick between his fingers, noticing that there was only a small amount of actual cigarette left. "We had better head inside, then," he stated, though didn't make a move to head inside. It was a nice feeling, people steadily clearing the area, leaving the two consultants more alone by the second outside in the cold night air. It might have been a metaphor for something, though Sherlock wasn't clear as to what it was, and didn't exactly want to think about it at the moment. Glancing at the other, he held the stick out between two fingers as offering. "For you," he added with a tiny smirk. He was nothing if not generous.

-

Jim merely nodded at Sherlock’s little justification – it was nothing, it was nature and habit, and they clearly had followed the same line of thought.  It did make Jim wonder, though.  Every time Sherlock pushed and Jim pushed him away – oh, that must have driven Sherlock just a little mad.  It was often hard to tell.  It was only with the distance of texts that things went awry.  When they couldn’t see and hear each other, couldn’t catch the other’s eye and say so much without a word.  That either allowed the bubble to expand beyond themselves and involve the other, was a testament to their mutual appreciation.  The bubble seemed to stand as a barrier warding off everyone else, and it was close to peaceful.

It also made them an obvious mark for any of big brother’s silly little cameras.  At the offer of the cigarette, Jim wrinkled his nose.  “Gum,” he said by way of explanation, knowing the tastes wouldn’t mix well.  He’d gotten some secondhand and that was enough, and was still keeping his hands in his pockets, lest they wander;  Sherlock was a constant and irresistible temptation.  Jim’s gaze did a final sweep of the corner, the parked cars, the lit windows in the buildings nearby.  No visible threat, but inside would be wiser, and warmer.  “Ready, darling?” he questioned, drawing the epithet out with a smile.  He was curious to see where they'd be sitting, and how close they could be and get away with it.  A merry little daydream of a thought, interrupted as they walked by a quick buzzing in his pocket.  Phone.  Jim rolled his eyes with a little sigh - he knew it'd happen sooner or later.  He tugged it out of pocket and, keeping it low and near to his side, glanced over the short message.  An 'employee' several rungs down the ladder, asking for a contact number for someone else involved in a job tomorrow...squinting critically at it, Jim decided it could wait, it really could.  He slid the phone back from whence it came.  "Boring," he murmured, so as to discourage Sherlock from pointless inquiries as they made their way inside.

-

Ah, yes, he should have realised that mint and nicotine didn't exactly mix very well. Oh well, it was the thought that counted and Sherlock finished off the cigarette before kneeling and stubbing it out on the ground, throwing the butt away in a nearby garbage can.     It had been a good idea, as he was now more fully prepared to enjoy the show, perhaps even a bit more relaxed than before. He would have to thank Jim later for the little treat and, of course, buy him a new pack. How Sherlock was able to appreciate the man even more over something so small as that was a mystery, yet it was perhaps the first one that he did not feel compelled to figure out, and that was one of the best feelings he could imagine.

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock actually bypassed the box this time around and took hold of the tickets, pulling them out and presenting them to the collector. He had only been to the venue once or twice before, as it was a fairly large hall and Sherlock generally preferred smaller ones as it was more intimate. The act was fairly famous, which was most likely the reason why it was being hosted in the larger hall, and why he had wanted to get tickets. Noticing Jim at his side pull out his phone, the detective didn't pay much mind to it as it was probably a client or some other employee of his and, of course, the criminal's empire came before everything else. It didn't look as if the other was going to respond which made Sherlock grateful as it would have been a real letdown should Jim have had to make a quick escape. As he nodded his understanding, he led the two of them to their seats, not at all surprised that it was fairly packed inside already.

Weaving in between rows of people, all the while making his way towards the back of the hall, Sherlock finally stopped at the end of a fairly empty row. "Here we are," he announced, turning back to face Jim with an excited smile. The boxed seats were split up into groups of two, separated by a small table, perhaps to hold belongings, with the areas themselves being fairly roomy with a gracious amount of leg space. Though it was more in the back, it still housed a brilliant view of the stage with less attendees around, making for little to no distractions. With only six rows of these seats available, only the first and fourth rows had people in them, with their own seats being in the fifth row. "I do hope it's to your liking," he teased, lightly pulling the other into the row with him and finally settling down into the seats.

-

If there were two things that James Moriarty truly enjoyed, they were live music, and watching Sherlock Holmes.  Even the most mundane things were, with Sherlock’s natural catlike grace, interesting.  The eager little bounce in his step that spoke of his quiet glee, the confidence with which he walked and knew Jim would follow.  He could watch Sherlock forever – doing so had made him forget to spit out the gum, so he swallowed it.  As for the music, final tunings and tests were ringing through the busy air – varying thuds upon drumheads, a viola humming.  The environment was alive in every way, wakening even those who were dead inside like Jim, whose peering eyes worked their way around the edges of the hall yet eventually gave up, people blurring into chatting masses, no one easy to make out, and no need to do so in this perfect space.  Sherlock was too tall and gorgeous to blend in anywhere, really, but Jim could do so at ease, and as a result, let some of the usual guard drop.

And now Sherlock was just spoiling him.  Despite residing in an apartment that one was kind to refer to as ‘quaint’, he clearly appreciated the finer things, and what had to have been expensive seats offered them room enough and privacy, both important between two such unpredictable beings as themselves.  The appreciative whistle was much like the one Sherlock had given to the car.  Why couldn’t they spoil each other like this _all_ the time?  It was gorgeous.  Jim made a mental note to thank Sherlock and pay him back by setting up something really good next week, somewhere high-profile and well-moneyed, that would easily offer Sherlock a month or two’s rent for taking care of whatever problems Jim gave them.  It sounded more fun to orchestrate than anything else he had on. 

“It’s perfect,” Jim purred, none of the usual boredom in it, hushed with more appreciation than he could properly voice, his mind already spinning a little at the possibilities, both of this space and of giving Sherlock some complicated brain teaser at the first opportunity.  The lights flickered off and on, off and on, a last-minute warning for those up and about to return their seats, just as Sherlock found his.  Did he know he was the picture of elegance?  Oh, probably.  Jim perched on the edge of his seat, room behind him to slip the jacket off his arms, turning to settle it carefully on the back of the chair.  It was warm enough in here not to need it, and it felt restrictive anyhow, when this was about relaxation.  He leaned back in the seat and turned enough to smile at Sherlock.  “You’ve outdone yourself, I feel spoiled,” Jim said, voice still nearer to a rumbling purr than anything else, not on purpose, but without any trilling fronts.  Sherlock had found them grating, he could tell, and they only came into his voice at the most manic of times.  This was, blessedly, not one of those, and though the words ‘thank you’ were not actually used, the heavy implication of the sentiment could not be missed.

-

The reaction from Jim was really something that Sherlock didn't exactly know he truly wanted, though after going all-out like this, he realised it must have been subconsciously what he was looking for. Simply approval from his only equal. It was a pleasant feeling, hearing the other say something that Sherlock had done was perfect when really, it had all been for his present company. After all, that's what it depended on - John sought out inane ideas for evenings such as going to see the circus. Sherlock was aware that had he invited Jim to do that, he would have been dropped like a hat. Such was life for two individuals such as themselves and he wasn't about to complain. Beaming, though trying not to let it show too much - he didn't need to stroke Jim's ego, as he did that enough already - he took the seat next to Jim's and got comfortable, enjoying the tiny show of the other removing his jacket with a barely-apparent smile, resting his elbow on the seat of the chair to watch.

Even when Jim took his seat, Sherlock continued to gaze at the man for a moment with the same tiny smile, taking in the view for as long as he could before settling back into his own seat. "As you should," he commented lightly with a wave of the hand. "Only the best for my equal, hm?" The words flowing out so easily felt strange on his lips, as he never talked about anyone like this, even John which he probably should have. He didn't regret anything that was said, or even done for that matter, anything that had let up to this point in time. Here he was, sitting with someone who appreciated music as much as he did, and appreciated the person he was sitting with just as much, if not more. He couldn't have asked for a better night.

The lights lowered again and that was the cue for Sherlock to sit up in his seat and look towards the stage as the first few notes began to play. He felt completely at home, would have even if Jim had not been there next to him, though that all but enhanced the experience, really. He could imagine himself on stage playing, had that been the path he had chosen, but thank a deity that it hadn't or he wouldn't be seated next to the man who had inspired him to be here. Truly, Jim was an inspiration of sorts, perhaps not the most sane or innocuous, but perfect for Sherlock nonetheless.

-

It didn’t completely go over his head that Sherlock was observing him so closely – flattering, yes.  But Equal?  Jim tilted his head slightly at the word, and in many instances, he’d have laughed.  Sherlock’s confidence in the idea was one he might pretend was laughable – ‘don’t flatter yourself’ being the first teasing reply that came to mind.  But for Sherlock to have voiced it, come to terms with it, believed it, believed that Jim deserved the best from him…well.  It was difficult to mock that, even if Jim still wished to be doubtful.  Sherlock certainly came the closest to deserving the designation of ‘equal’, otherwise Jim would never have wanted his attention.  Damn, but Sherlock understood it all perfectly, and any laughter would be laughed off in turn.  His lips had parted to speak, but he ended up only licking them out of habit, in thought, and they closed again.

Even as the music started up, and his eyes drifted away from Sherlock’s face to the stage, he couldn’t let go of the phrasing.  Sherlock was really beginning to understand this the same way that Jim did.  And ‘equal’ in Sherlock’s book was such a compliment.  Tremendously reassuring.  The criminal remained relaxed into the seat, a small sigh of pleasure at the rising music, and rather than stare at the wanly-lit expanse of Sherlock’s neck he closed his eyes, letting the sounds flow veritably into himself, smoothing over the sharp edges of his mind.  He could appreciate it more purely if he could forget for a few moments who was beside him, but the way his heart seemed to flutter a little at a sudden boom in volume, wasn’t only about the perfectly executed piece.  No, no.  The orchestra couldn’t take all the credit there.

Had anyone bothered to look his way, they’d swear that Jim looked, in that moment, completely peaceful.

He didn’t want to break the little spell over his own nerves and paranoia, but opening his eyes after a few floating minutes, Jim entertained thoughts about stroking Sherlock’s neck or his hand, whatever gesture the distracted detective might allow.  But he didn’t wish to intrude either on Sherlock’s rapt enjoyment of the brightly-lit stage and the music rising from it.  Merely speaking could break the effect.  But texting…..After a moment of thought, Jim sat up slightly, and rolled his eyes.  Theatrics that made it look as if he’d received another text – would have been impossible for Sherlock to hear the vibration or lack thereof over the music.  Jim pulled the phone out, keeping it carefully tilted to himself, and frowned at the screen as if bothered by something there.  Oh, such a good actor.  He considered his words with less care than usual, but that didn’t really matter.  The music was grand, but he wanted Sherlock’s attention along with it – yep, definitely spoiled.

Did I mention you look stunning tonight?  -JM

This text was written in an app he’d created, a little hack that would delay the sending of the text.  Jim set it for three minutes in the future, and keeping his face an expressionless mask, put the phone away, leaned back into his chair, and merely listened, adrift again on high notes and low, finding it somehow in his black heart to be patient for the moment Sherlock’s phone would draw the intrigued violinist back to him. 

-

Not even five minutes into the show starting and Sherlock was already experiencing what he could deem one of the greatest nights he'd ever had. It may have been enhanced simply because he wasn't alone, for a change, and that significantly increased the explanation of why indeed it was such a good night. Always going out alone, on the evenings that he even went out at all, made him numb to the fact that although his flatmate usually had someone to spend time with, he would have to seek his own entertainment as crap television was only mind-numbing for a few hours at a time. Ever since his last time with Jim, however, he had become somewhat spoiled, not even entertaining the thought of spending the evening out by himself, which was precisely the reason he was determined to make this an unforgettable night.

The desire to somehow connect with the criminal next to him was a bit strange, as they were already both attentively listening to the music filling the hall. It would be far too cliché to reach a hand out for Jim's, highly expected and while it may have been sickeningly sweet, reserved for a later time, perhaps farther along into the show. Little mutual distractions were expected, though it was far too early, and would be much more appreciated, say, during the swelling of the chorus. Still, a subtle peek over at Jim couldn't hurt, and finding the man texting with an annoyed expression on his face was a bit entertaining. Probably telling another one of his clients to piss off or some such. With a subtle smile, Sherlock looked back to the stage, shaking his head.

Over all of the roaring music surrounding the hall, he never would have expected to hear his own text alert tone along with the vibration in his pocket, instantly thinking that it would be John. He had told him he was on a case and left it at that - there was no way he could possibly have been found out. Pulling the phone out before the second alert could go off, he raised an eyebrow as he read the text, glancing to the side at the criminal who had written it. Of course Jim would send something like he did and proceed to make a huge show of it, simply to throw the detective off. And, as always, flattery would get him everywhere.

No, but you're off the hook this time, as you're not so bad yourself. SH

The signature at the end made him smile, as it was completely unnecessary, just as much as texting the person you're sitting next to was but such a habit that neither of them could break. Placing the phone in his lap this time rather than his pocket, Sherlock settled back into his seat again, watching Jim out of the corner of his eye with a tiny smirk.

-

Jim watched Sherlock out of his periphery, focus turning back to the stage the moment he felt the other’s gaze begin to turn his way.  He was only barely concealing his mirth, bolstered as it was by the presence of the music, crossing his legs at the knee towards Sherlock but a seemingly unconscious shift, merely relaxing further, shoe tapping the air gently in time.  His head wasn’t quite still upon his neck, nodding along ever so slightly, watching the conductor, anticipating every lift and wave of disciplined arms guiding the music.  For a moment he had convinced himself Sherlock simply didn’t exist – until his phone buzzed again.  Jim’s teeth caught the inside of his cheek to keep the grin off his face as he retrieved it from pocket, not being quite as careful to conceal it as the sender was right beside him.  Well.  If it were brighter in here, the slight flush that graced his cheeks may have been visible. 

Jim hmmmmed along with the familiar notes as his thumbs tapped a quick answer, opting to do so instead of speak both because the music was beautiful, and the intriguing placement of Sherlock’s phone was bound to prove amusing when it buzzed. 

Charming, Sherlock.  But not even you could distract me from this.  JM

It was entirely unfair, as Jim had texted first – given that they were surprisingly fair in their professional treatment of each other, to break tradition occasionally was alluring.  It was, however, a very dangerous bluff, for Sherlock might pretend to take him at his word, and that wouldn’t be very fun at all.  What it came down to was rather dear Sherlock could resist a challenge; this was a clear one, and the Irishman was still biting down on a cat-that-stole-the-cream sort of smirk as he pressed Send, eyes back to the stage, body subtly lost in the music even if his mind was grappling with the thrill of uncertainty.  He couldn’t completely, 100% always predict Sherlock, and that was something to be savored.  To start in on each other now, they wouldn’t see the concert through.  It would be a shame to waste a dark private place, when anywhere else they felt the constant heat of the stage lights of their own lives.  But he was leaving it for the moment in his obsession’s lovely hands, just to see what he might do.

-

Fingers laying on the armrest tapping, Sherlock couldn't help but now keep one ear focused on the music playing and the other to listen for the text tone even though the phone was resting in his lap, a distraction that he didn't think would actually become a distraction that night. Of course, Jim was ever the game-changer, not that he was about to complain. After all, it wasn't as if it was a wasted trip, as they were both still enjoying the music, but also having a bit of fun with playful banter back and forth. If it could be called that. Though, the decision to text rather than speak and interrupt the music was thoughtful of him, and Sherlock was appreciative. As long as he could pay attention to both rather than having to choose one was much more preferable than having to divide his attention between two things he was severely interested in.

He wasn't expecting such a quick reply, even as he was still watching Jim and the resting hand flew to his lap as the phone sounded off and vibrated. Yes, he would definitely simply hold it in his hand next time, as neither of them really showed any sign of stopping their little conversation over texts. Reading Jim's reply, Sherlock scoffed quietly in amusement, both at the irony of Jim being the one to text first and at the supposed challenge that the criminal had proposed to him. If he could recall, his company was the one distracting him rather than the other way around, but letting Jim think it was the opposite would prove to be amusing. He could simply stop texting and show Jim that indeed, he was right and Sherlock wouldn't even try to argue, but that wouldn't be nearly as fun as the alternative. Though, trying too hard would prove to be a disaster as well; no, there had to be a good balance between the two. Jim had no idea what exactly he was getting himself into.

Suit yourself. Here I thought I was being clever, choosing such private seats... SH

With a triumphant smirk, Sherlock closed his hand around the phone tightly, again resuming his position to watch the orchestra and the criminal at the same time. The music really did provide excellent background for their predicament, a happy accident that he was glad to have. It was a bit of a spoil to himself, really, having such two lovely distractions that were so far apart that they didn't mix though to Sherlock, they came together quite well.

-

The little scoff was audible over the music, and Jim laughed soundlessly to himself.  Upon receiving another text, however, he did begin to wonder if he’d fucked up.  Theirs was a strange seduction, not unlike chess, and Sherlock had just given one of his nemesis’ rooks or knights a rattle, a rock thrown at Jim’s restraint.  The grand acoustics were the only thing keeping his mind from sliding helplessly back to the taxi, the last dark semi-private place they’d been together.  Sherlock was right beside him, there was really no reason for games, but anything less would be giving in, even if the gain was worth the metaphysical loss.  He had a feeling Sherlock was keeping good track of the score.

Still, it was good in the extreme that Jim had a reputation for being mercurial, for Sherlock was adding to the thrill of the music, not taking away from it, and that was answer enough if questioned on the point.  Jim’s expression was the very picture of nonchalance as he wrote back,

Oh?  Something particular in mind?  JM

It was only when Sherlock leaned forward a little to read it, that Jim let his gaze travel over the absolute tease next to him, swallowing thickly.  His left elbow perched on a smidgen of the armrest, his fingertips just barely caressing the very base of Sherlock’s neck, feather-light as an afterthought, seemingly thoughtlessly but Jim had absolute control over the circling of his finger, those gorgeous dark curls tickling the back of his hand.  The sounds had risen and fallen again around them, and before Sherlock could write back, Jim took advantage of the quiet given by a lone violin, and tilted his head, lips near Sherlock’s ear.  “You know I just _adore_ it when you’re clever,” he murmured, all warm breath and rumble, the tone of voice indicative of playing with Sherlock, rather than being played.  That was something Jim just wouldn’t allow, but Equal was alright by him.  More than alright. 

-

The whole situation made Sherlock feel as if they were teenagers, sitting next to each other yet pulling out their phones to text. It was absurd and made no sense whatsoever though he wasn't about to say as much as he was half guilty of contributing to it. Jim had compelled him to do many strange things, things that he never would have thought to do before, and they seemed to be getting better and better. He vaguely wondered if Jim had felt the same way, though it probably wasn't the case, as these most likely weren't exactly new experiences for the criminal. It may have been, though he carried himself so well and confidently that he could have fooled Sherlock. Of course, he himself had quite the poker face as well, or so he would have hoped. It would have been terrible to let his defenses down so easily just because of a few flirty text messages. Ah, and here was one now.

Switching to hold his phone with both hands, the detective diverted his eyes to the text, reading quickly. Oh, how many possibilities were there with which he could answer such a question? He could always simply leave Jim hanging; that would be a barrel of laughs.

Then again, he could actually answer it, perhaps throw the criminal for a loop had he not been expecting it. It was a bit difficult to tell with such a complex being as Jim. Just as an answer came to mind, cool fingertips on the back of his neck distracted him instantly, making him look up. Perhaps Jim had decided to answer his own question.

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, as it seemed to have just become irrelevant, Sherlock relaxed ever so slightly in his seat, moving carefully. He fixed the other with an appreciative smile, though it turned into a silent gasp as Jim leaned over to whisper. He didn't have to struggle to hear it, making out the change in tone just fine over the softened music, thinking how the man had impeccable timing, really. Leaning back into the touch, he gave a sigh of pleasure, absentmindedly reaching a hand over to rest on Jim's knee, lightly gripping it as the music swelled back up. "I'm aware," was the answer, though it had to be raised in volume a bit to be heard. "I could say the same for you." It was trailed off at the end as the orchestra died down again and Sherlock gave a breathy chuckle near Jim's ear, knowing it would probably be lost in the music.

-

This was arguably juvenile, but, Jim reasoned, entirely in line with what anyone else might be doing on a – ha – _date_.  It was hardly as if they hadn’t been devouring each other with their eyes all evening, anyway.  Not as if Sherlock had taunted him terribly via texts, oh, not at all.  Sherlock so insistent that he wasn’t ‘sweet’…music to the criminal mastermind’s ears.  This teasing side of Sherlock, Jim was sure very few ever got to see it; it belonged to Jim, whose knee twitched just slightly under the warm touch.  One thing to get rid of some of the pressure this morning by his own hand, another thing for Sherlock to be touching him, and be so touchable in turn.

It was an insult to the orchestra to let the evening’s entertainment become background music; Jim wasn’t quite there yet, but the spike in body temperature and the lazy smile on his face didn’t bode well for full focus on the hardworking musicians below.  He and Sherlock in a private universe above all the world, that’s how it always felt, and Jim tilted his head slowly towards the breath and voice against his ear, let it be for a moment all that he heard.  Not sweet, no, but definitely flattering.  How adorable.  How very difficult to ignore.    


Jim’s fingers extended, the tips caressing the sides and back of Sherlock’s neck, playing nice when he could grip very hard if he wished to.  Jim hummed in thought, and moved his face back just enough to watch the other. “Now, now…”  His hand moved forward to brush over Sherlock’s cheek, thumb passing just over Sherlock’s lower lip.  “You get me worked up here, I’m going to be convinced you’re some kind of exhibitionist,” he teased softly, dark eyes catching blue, the general darkness of the hall doing little to dim the icy sparkle.  His thumb made another soft swipe over that delectable lower lip, the entire idea of possession and control coming across, but the touch was so gentle.  “Behave yourself,” Jim purred, smirking, fully aware Sherlock Holmes usually did the opposite of what he was told. 

-

It had always been in the detective's nature to follow through with whatever it was he put his mind to, especially if it were something he had started himself. To do anything else was out of the question, or at least, normally it was. This was completely out of left field and something that required a bit more thinking no matter how difficult that was being made due to Jim's caresses on his skin. It was a soft, loving act, out of line with Jim's usual behaviour though what had actually been usual for someone like him? It could have been this; the man was clearly capable of putting on whatever act he wished to show the rest of the world and Sherlock had shown that he would eat it up. A mistake on his part, though, given their current situation, perhaps he hadn't been wrong after all.

The slight twitch made him smirk for a second, at least pleased to know that there was some sort of effect he could have over Jim should he truly want it. Such a thought was thrilling, something that he hadn't been aware of before with anyone else and something he would definitely use later to his advantage. It did help that Jim was such a responsive, expressive individual, not unlike Sherlock at certain times. The ghostly trail that the criminal's fingers left across his neck caused an apparent shiver, one that ran down his spine and made him quietly exhale. As a thumb gently touched his cheek, Sherlock gave an innocent smile, eyes darting down to watch Jim move it to his lip. How he resisted the strong urge to lightly tongue it or sweetly kiss it was a mystery, perhaps one that could be solved later on in the evening.

Jim's comment nearly made him bust out in laughter but instead made him give a crinkly smile before shaking his head. He wasn't exactly sure what exhibitionism involved, as it didn't take up too much space in his memory banks, but from what he did know, it was fairly certain he didn't have the bravery to do such a thing, even if it was in a dark place surrounded by booming music. However, such a fact as that would not be overlooked by the next purred order given by Jim, something that Sherlock was fairly certain he would later regret saying, accentuating the thought by moving his hand slowly, carefully up and slightly into the other's inner thigh, just stopping short of anywhere dangerous. "Make me," was the completely juvenile reply as Sherlock locked eyes with Jim, raising an eyebrow as a challenge.

-


	5. Temptation greets you like your naughty mate

It did take a moment to register Sherlock’s almost-laughter as harmless.  Humor had some place between them, yes, and Jim felt more than pleased that he’d made Sherlock smile like that; had he seen such a real one when it didn’t involve murder, or the man’s own intellect?  It struck Jim as beautiful, but one moment here distracted too easily from the last.  Jim felt somewhat as if he were overheating, the brave and prolonged eye contact always a dangerous flame with which to play.  Jim couldn’t pinpoint where and when in his life he’d decided that fumbling around in the dark with Sherlock was an acceptable answer to their larger problem, but this was not remotely the time to consider going back on that decision. 

There was something sweet in having been challenging for each other’s sake all night.  Anything less would be painful and disappointing to each, Jim imagined.  Sherlock was definitely challenging him now; the hand on his leg was moving, oh, hell…whatever he’d tried to keep off his face was showing now in a short Morse flutter of lashes, lips parting to inhale sharply, almost hoping Sherlock hadn’t heard it but so what if he had?  Let him.  The more power Sherlock knew he had, the more he’d want to use it.  As it was the simple touch was making the Irishman momentarily dizzy, taking oxygen away from him, moving blood from brain to elsewhere, bringing that clever tongue poking out against his lip for a moment.  Sherlock’s fingers spidering up his leg were completely enticing.   _Fucking hell,_ but it really didn’t take much for the dear darling to get a rise out of him.

Many, many things he’d love to inspire Sherlock to do, but behaving was not one.  And Sherlock knew it.  Knew it and had, by blindsiding Jim – a pleasant surprise – won that round of verbal sparring without even having to try.  Nobody could make Sherlock Holmes do much of anything.  But making him _feel_ was not out of Jim’s range of power.  If it wasn’t a balance, it was nothing. 

Jim shifted slightly, the slow sliding of one knee and leg from where they’d rested atop the other, and he sat up a little.  His hand lingered near Sherlock’s chin and neck, eyes darting down to the lips that had that thrown down that ridiculous gauntlet.  Make me.  Why in the hell would Jim want to do that?  “So clever,” Jim granted, hushed, “But didn’t anyone teach you not to talk over good music?  Hm?”  Anything to get that voice away from his ear and making him shiver without permission, anything to get closer to Sherlock, oh, so good that two desires coincided with each other for once, that the tightening of fingertips on Sherlock’s gorgeous neck only helped Jim keep him near.  His eyes were slightly hazy but large, and his heart pounded in excitement, out of time with the music but just right as a beat between them.  “Ssh…” Jim’s lips pursed around the silencing susurrus, face tilting closer until his lips brushed the other’s, eyes closing.

-

Such interesting reactions Jim was giving, so very telling without needing to be verbal at all, as Sherlock understood just fine. It was much easier to show it this way rather than with words, which were often misleading or simply tiresome and this obviously did not require words, though the added illusion of banter back and forth was certainly a nice touch. No, he preferred the noises that he had to strain to hear, such as what he thought was the intake of breath but couldn't be quite sure over the music. Instead, he imagined Jim had made such a sound, pleased with himself that he was the one who had caused it and could therefore take the credit for it. The tiny tip of Jim's tongue against lips that Sherlock had seen many times before, but not quite like this made him giddy with glee, but hushed - always show it physically rather than verbally, he kept having to remind himself.

The retort may have been a bit juvenile, though Jim had walked right into it and so Sherlock was not about to change it. There was a bit of truth behind the statement, as he wasn't exactly one for following the rules, especially when it didn't suit him. Being told by Jim made it all the more fun; after all, it wasn't every day that he was being told to behave by a criminal. Yes, that was half the fun of it, of course - a sort of role reversal in all aspects - Sherlock testing Jim's waters for himself rather than the other way around. Uncharted territory, so to speak, at least in his mind. 

His hand moved with Jim's readjustment, keeping firm in place even as he settled. His eyes seemed to dart from place to place when in actuality, they were most likely just glancing, as Sherlock was doing, not really focusing on any point in particular. He tried to take in everything, even Jim's little quip about good music when, really, he was just as guilty but Sherlock had a feeling that wasn't exactly the biggest issue to have. A witty retort was lost in his mind as he watched with subtle fascination as Jim's lips pursed, making the quiet shush and Sherlock felt compelled to lean in a bit just to hear it himself, even moreso by the fingers on his neck. Eyes closing to match the other before contact, he waited for the wanted inevitable, tightening his grip just a bit as finally there was the soft collision, one that he sighed into, almost as if that was what he had been waiting for all along.

-

They seemed to melt into each other.  Like the music, it was sweet and slow – like the music, it couldn’t remain that way.  Jim’s tongue slipped against Sherlock’s lips, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about the garlic-and-cigarettes taste, not with Sherlock’s hand on his thigh so warm and distractingly.  Jim’s bitten nails stroked gently along the side of his neck, the other eagerly settling upon Sherlock’s side, his thumb just idly stroking the purple fabric over his midsection.  Oh, but this really had to stop before it began, or they’d end keep pushing, and end up arrested for public indecency, and oh, wouldn’t big brother Mycroft just love that!  The thought almost made Jim chuckle, but it was merely a shaky breath trapped between them.  His tongue lazily coaxed Sherlock’s into dancing, and he felt somewhat as if he were burning up.  Maybe next time they’d ought just skip the dinner and the pretense, if this was, even sober, what things came down to. 

His hand moved upwards, warm and stroking Sherlock’s side, the most he’d touched him yet, feeling out muscle and ribs and pulse.  Jim really could have Sherlock any way he wanted, and was only beginning to understand that.  It was his way to tire of things once he knew he could have them – could Sherlock be an exception to that rule?  Jim didn’t know for sure, only knew that they were fanning the flames of mutual addiction, and that if either broke it up now, bitter scars and mistrust could be left in its wake.  Those would come in time; he still meant to do away with Sherlock the second he made Jim’s job more difficult, but the fact was, he was cleverer than Sherlock.  Better established, better resources.  It would be a tall order for anyone to take him down, even the inimitable Sherlock Holmes.  That’s what made killing such a sweet dream he might never have to call into action, but he feared letting Sherlock doubt its intensity.  If the detective got off most on danger, Jim could never let that entirely slip, even if what was lost in translation may have been beautiful.

The thought changed the course of his hand, thumb brushing over adam’s apple and gorgeous throat, not pressing hard but making itself known, but what was such a reminder when Sherlock was quite succeeding in taking Jim’s own breath away?  Jim was struggling to focus on Sherlock and the half-heard music, rather than the way the tempting heat was settling in his midsection, making him want more.  If Sherlock wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a lapful of Jim, public setting be damned.  But the care taken was also extremely frustrating.  Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t.  So familiar a situation between them.  There was no alley down which to flee, no escaping the intensifying kiss, his fingers curling in Sherlock’s shirt and tugging tensely at the fabric, the smallest of appreciative sounds rising from Jim’s throat.  More, he wanted more…

-

Something about this particular encounter made Sherlock keep pressing with a fearless attitude coupled with a damn-the-rules mentality, though he couldn't quite place what exactly was making it seem that way. It was a dangerous mindset to have, especially between two minds such as his and Jim's - they could probably snog and kill someone then make their departure before anyone was the wiser. Of course,

Sherlock would never let that happen, but the principle was still there. The first part of that little failed plan, at least, they had down pat. Jim's roaming fingers partnered with his incessant but determined coaxing of Sherlock's tongue was more than enough for him to comply and soothe Jim's with his own, enjoying the relaxed dancing but also wishing to come out on top, so to speak.

The soft strokes coming from the other man's hand made him come to the realisation that perhaps he was enjoying this so much because Jim had been the one to initiate it. The cab had found Sherlock leaning down to meet Jim, something that he would never forget. Then, in the car, he hadn't been able to help himself and had stolen a quick moment. But this was Jim leaning over to engage him for which Sherlock was immeasurably grateful. Sure, there were the tiny kisses after the first initial one in the taxi, but this was a real one and one that Sherlock could pour whatever was left of his heart and soul into. Such a revelation simply made him want more, as knowing that Jim had been the one to initiate this was sweet in and of itself.

His racing mind had found it difficult to concentrate on the workings of the criminal's hands and even his own. He was still aware that a hand was resting on Jim's thigh, quite comfortably, he told himself. The other was free to wander anywhere and Sherlock placed it softly upon Jim's cheek, simply holding him there with a light brushing with his thumb. It was funny, the way things happened, with Jim's own hand on his neck; he could easily end this should he have wanted to. Taken the detective out the easy way - he certainly wouldn't have expected it and probably would have gone with a smile on his face. Of course, that would also mean the end of it for Jim and the way he was clinging to Sherlock's front seemed to indicate that such a thought would never be acted upon. A smile settled across his features at the morbid thought with a happy ending and he pulled away briefly to nip at Jim's lower lip, just for a second before returning, as if he had never left the kiss at all.

-

So tender a touch from Sherlock surprised Jim in the extreme – _romantic,_ what was wrong with them - though he tried not to let it.  Everything was fast escaping his control, anyhow – Jim couldn’t get himself to behave most of the time, how could he possibly manage Sherlock?  Mere kisses, less fervent than the ones in the taxi but only just, getting there, getting to a point where Jim want Sherlock’s hand higher.  He didn’t need anything from Sherlock – imagination was a wonderful thing.  But if he let that wander off, it’d go places like Sherlock’s mouth, and do very little to improve the situation currently happening below his belt.  Not need, but _want_ , so very badly. 

The little nip almost hurt.  Heat passed over every inch of Jim’s skin in a pleasurable wave in response to it, breath leaving him in a gasp before their lips locked again.  His own pursed around the tip of Sherlock’s tongue for a few long moments, sucking at it teasingly, teeth grazing before releasing it.  Jim’s fingers trailed back along the smooth white column of Sherlock’s neck to settle in the dark locks, none too gently.  Some small effort to keep a hold on the situation, had to keep a clear head, they were in public, after all, it cheapened it somehow, when they might be somewhere alone...even the idea of having Sherlock somewhere all alone was adding to the growing air of exquisite torment.  When the kiss broke for air, the look the breathless criminal gave him was half-questioning wonder and half-hunger, saying both _What have you done to me?_ and _I’m going to eat you alive_.

It was a terrible thing to let Sherlock know that he had exactly as much power over Jim as he wished.  That could really come back to bite one in the arse, if one wasn’t careful.  His fingers flexed into Sherlock’s side and the fabric of the shirt, wondering how warm the skin beneath was, how pale.  Well.  He’d seen pictures of Sherlock in a sheet, there was some idea there.  But how sensitive?  Would Sherlock’s cool façade melt even further at the right touch?  Jim hated not knowing things, especially things as relevant to his interests as that.  And like that, before his brain had even told his digits to do so, his thumb and forefinger were tugging the fabric where it was tucked in, success, thumb running just above Sherlock’s hipbone.  If Sherlock wanted to be a fucking _tease_ , he was going to get as good as he gave, Jim would make damn sure of that.

-

Aware of the fact that the two of them had been locked together for far too long, it was inevitable that they would soon have to break apart if not only to get a steady form of air flowing back .Jim's lips may have been the source of Sherlock's attention and affections at the moment, but his lungs wouldn't exactly agree. The break was welcomed, however, if he could see more of the look that Jim was currently giving him. 

It enticed Sherlock, made him want to turn it into something of complete ecstasy. That was likely a far way off, though, as their little displays of affection, public as they may have been, were simply teasing thus far. Any more that they did beyond would be going straight into winding each other up on purpose. Sherlock idly wondered if anyone in the first four rows had decided to turn around yet, if they had been making too much noise. They did seem to be on their best behaviour so far, as getting thrown out of the hall would be far more embarrassing than Sherlock wished to imagine.

Here in this moment, however, Jim's hand was on his neck, holding him there to simply look at the other man through clouded eyes that he tried again and again to refocus. It felt particularly nice, having the hand there to keep him from drifting away, though that wasn't even a possibility in Sherlock's mind, especially right then. Everything at the moment just seemed to be a mess of touching whatever innocent spots that they could allow each other to peruse, a game that could quickly turn on its head the moment either of them willed it to.

Adding to the stakes, he loosened his grip on Jim's thigh and instead began to draw tiny, nonsense shapes and patterns with his fingers, tracing up and down the length of it. It was something to distract himself rather than surge forward again; besides, it was a quiet piece of music being performed and the sounds of desperate kissing would surely tip off someone.

Sherlock smiled, watching Jim out of the corner of his eye un-tuck his shirt, not fully grasping what he intended to do but deciding the action was amusing to him anyway. The first touch of skin that had been covered made him jump ever so lightly, not expecting a thumb to be placing itself on his hip. It was far too intimate for comfort, but not far enough to be truly enjoyed, though it was getting there. It had to have been the most intimate that they had gotten yet and Sherlock was not about to let the opportunity to comment on it pass up. He leaned forward, near Jim's ear, intending to whisper. "Eager tonight, aren't we?" was the only comment he gave before diverting his attention to the criminal's neck, leaning in to place a light kiss where neck and shoulder met. 

-

It was worth lamenting over that Jim was so very susceptible to Sherlock’s slightest touches.  He’d only been watching Sherlock for, oh, several years now, and at this particular moment, the detective was making himself particularly difficult to ignore.  So much for maintaining control, but wasn’t it beautiful, that Jim could bring it out in him?  The random strokes of long violinist fingers were making their target shiver inadvertently, and wonder whether it was completely tacky to shove someone against the wall of the men’s room so long as it was live Saint-Saëns coming through the speakers….yeah, still tacky.  Pity.  After an aggravating week and several miscommunications with his adored obsession, the contact was beginning to overwhelm in a most obvious way.  And Sherlock seemed all too fond of pushing Jim’s buttons, assuming there’d be no negative consequences.  It would take more focus than the criminal had to devise or arrange any, just now.  Denying Jim’s halfhearted order to behave would be nearly unacceptable, if the rebellion in question wasn’t so sweet.

His hand curled around the back of Sherlock’s neck, easing up but massaging as one would to soothe a cat.  The hand on bare skin couldn’t resist brushing over more of it, the little jolt not escaping Jim’s attention.  He wanted to get at every inch of it, to explore at his leisure, or even in time with the grand and beloved sounds rising from the stage.  But it stilled over Sherlock’s hip as he struggled to listen over the music and his own slightly ragged breathing, a slow and heavy exhale his only answer, his eyelids fluttering closed at the kiss that followed, the inhale sharp.  Too much, too good, too little control.  This was fast becoming one of their games, and Jim couldn’t let Sherlock think he’d win those, no, that wouldn’t do.  Mind over matter, even if his blood was vacating his brain.

Jim tilted his chin nearer Sherlock’s, close enough to be heard, fingers putting just a little more pressure on Sherlock’s hip, a hand spasm that spoke more of the tension Jim was just barely repressing than a purposeful squeeze.  “I think you’re enjoying this too much,” Jim declared softly, no bite to the sentence but very little discernible warmth.  It was just a trick of voice, just to get Sherlock to really pay attention.  “Getting out for a night, getting to be bad…”  The word rolled with extra syllables.  “I’m only eager because you are.  All the normal people, they’re-“  His breath hitched tellingly, too aware of his own fingers splaying out and moving across Sherlock’s abdomen.  “Why, they’re paying attention to the music.  I could probably get on my _knees_ for you and they wouldn’t notice.  Do you think they’d notice?” 

-  

Arguably, the greatest part about this whole little game of teasing and touching was the reactions that were being produced, not just from Jim but from Sherlock as well. It must have been fairly obvious that he had never made such sounds and given such jolts to anything before, let alone ones from human contact, and of course let alone from someone like Jim. He was probably the last person that would come to anyone's mind should they think of who Sherlock would be sitting in the dark with and pawing over. Sherlock wasn't stupid, and he was very well aware of the fact that everybody and their housekeeper thought that he should be with John, if the constant questioning and winks and nudges were anything to go by. The doctor may have been his best friend, but this was...different. This was chemistry and longing and built-up tension all clashed together into one consulting criminal. The thought was what kept him to push, to lean into Jim and whisper such teasing words, something to keep his mind from racing out of control.

It evidently seemed to have worked, though that may have been due to the skin underneath Sherlock's mouth as well. It was ever so fun to surprise Jim and have control of the situation if even for a moment before handing it back to his beloved company. The one shock, the inhaling of breath was what he truly desired and he was set, at least until the next touch. His skin was warm all over, save for the spots that Jim had claimed and were currently driving him mad with. The hand on his neck wasn't nearly as bad as the one underneath his shirt, as it was significantly closer and more intimate, yet not enough of either for Sherlock's liking. It occurred to him that they should at least consider the thought of slowing down, lest something happen, but that particular suggestion definitely was not going to come from him. If this would stop, it would have to come from Jim.

He listened to Jim explain with amusement, finding no fault with what he was saying. Jim's words rang true - it certainly wasn't if he wasn't enjoying himself, and, well, being bad he would simply have to chalk up to the company he was with. The hand that had been making innocent etchings into his skin just before suddenly moved and Sherlock tensed, exhaling hotly. Yes, this was not what normal people did when coming to listen to an orchestra, as Jim had so pointed out. His last observation and subsequent question made the now-alarmed detective suddenly intake air, face warming up just at the thought. In as even a voice as he could muster at that moment, he leaned in as close as he could get, practically tonguing Jim's ear. "Only if you would like them to," was the breathy answer. "It's your choice."

-

It was translating this to a game in Jim’s own mind that made the scorching heat more bearable.  To dazzle and outwit Sherlock, was just enough of a challenge to be worthy.  His senses were locked to Sherlock’s reactions, every twitch and breath, the music fading to the background more and more by the moment.  Regrettable, only not.  Jim wasn’t really intending to make good on the words, meaning only to pay Sherlock back for the torment he was dealing out surprisingly masterfully, ah, but he knew, he knew just what he did to Jim, he’d found out at the pub and was so determined to use it.  ‘To what end?’ he’d once asked, and Sherlock had said, ‘You tell me.’  Too careful with each other, really, when this was the kindest of all outcomes to their problems, the best way to use everything they knew of each other and get results.  Of a sort.

But as an attempt to refocus the mind, it failed beautifully.  Jim might have won with it, could have, if Sherlock’s lips and tongue and breath weren’t brushing his ear and sending something like lightning down his spine.  And Sherlock wasn’t even discouraging the idea, fucking _hell_.  It took every bit of restraint not to squirm or arch towards Sherlock’s hand.  His nails grazed across Sherlock’s skin, partly in reaction and partly to create more of them.  “Not here,” he replied in a shaky murmur, the waver in his voice giving away something desperate.  “But I _would_ like to.” 

Control…calm…he was simply trying to breathe, probably wouldn’t have been able to walk even if the building were on fire.  He wanted to drive Sherlock mad, but doing so was a double-edged sword of frustration.  The hand on the detective’s midsection slipped away, fingers just barely brushing lower, oh _god_ , before reaching for the fingers on Jim’s thigh, stopping them by gripping the detective's hand hard.  He’d planted the seed of the idea, but unless they were leaving early, they had to slow down, but what a joke that was, when his fingers couldn’t keep from massaging Sherlock’s pretty neck.  It would do a world of good to turn his full attention back to the music, but it just wasn’t happening anymore; breath uncatchable, lust insatiable, dizzy with it, nearly trembling.  Sherlock could make the call, whether they should stay or go; to be touched and then for it to stop, that had to be oh-so-unsettling for the darling, but Jim wouldn’t cave or suggest leaving until Sherlock did.  Because one more teasing word from Sherlock, and that would be it, game over for resistance, Jim really would be right there on his knees, and not give a fuck who noticed.  Sherlock had to realize that.  They were positively awful influences on each other and it was delicious, if not inopportune. 

-

This truly was becoming quite the high stakes game, and one that Sherlock would have to reveal his hand to very soon if it continued to escalate like this. It was something he was both completely willing to do and yet was terrified of doing at the same time, as he was a fabulous bluffer but when it came time to put up or shut up, he had no idea if he would in fact be able to shut up. The problem was that Jim was just as good at this damn game as he was which of course made it all the more worth playing, but also way more potentially damaging. Had he been thinking straight, and there was no reason not to be - it certainly wasn't like the last time they were in a situation like this - the response would have been something along the lines of ‘of course they would notice, as they're only sitting a few rows away’. Why he had left the decision up to someone as impulsive as James Moriarty would be a mystery that not even he would be able to solve, nor would he want to.

Of course, should Jim actually make a move, Sherlock would at least have the sense to drag him somewhere where there were significantly less people around. At least, that's what he hoped. A hushed sigh of relief came from his lips at Jim's eventual answer, followed by the realisation that...oh. That did happen to be a thing that the other wanted to do. Sherlock hadn't thought much of it before, as they both were doing their little back-and-forth game of mutual bothering. But now that Jim had said it, so _blatantly_ , he was warmer than even before. God, did he feel like a teenager at that exact moment rather than a grown man. He would have answered that he would have liked that as well, though all that came out was a hard swallow of a lump that had formed in his throat. 

The hand that gripped and stilled his own made the detective come back to his senses, staring intently at Jim as his thoughts raced before breaking out into a smile. The gaze drifted ever so slowly to his mouth, and Sherlock used his unoccupied hand to lazily drag a thumb over Jim's lower lip for half a second before pulling away, pretending to at least give a thought about the predicament. "Well, I suppose we'll have to be making our departure then, hm?" was his response, attempting to sound as even and calm as possible, given the circumstances. "That is, if you're ready, of course."

-

Jim wasn’t sure whether he liked Sherlock’s smile now.  Oh, aesthetically, yes, gorgeous, but what did it mean in the moment?  And the disarmingly tender touch to his lip had Jim exhaling harshly against Sherlock’s palm before it moved away.  Time seemed to be moving very slowly in those moments of indecision.  The answer floored him, predictable and sensible that they get out of here before they got into trouble, but standing up could be shaky.  Of course, if they waited long enough to cool off, their brains might turn against them, talk themselves or each other out of it. 

Sherlock was really suggesting they leave, together, and go find somewhere, together…Jim felt like the very center of his body was burning.  The music had gone somewhere darker and richer but with a pulse, he could feel it all through him, or was it merely his own?  To let Sherlock have at least some control, was the only way he might get what he wanted.  Christ, he’d follow Sherlock anywhere, though that was a very silly thing to let the detective know for certain.  The longer before Sherlock realized it, the better. 

To Jim’s credit, he was doing an excellent job keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face, when he wanted to let them roam all over, and chance a glance towards finding out exactly how effected the other was.  But Sherlock would notice the looking, and Jim was clinging for control to whatever subtlety remained.  Why should any doubts be nagging him _now_ , when things were going such lovely places?  Perhaps because the careful distance was always a point of pride, and they were breaking it as if it were a wall of glass.  Once that occurred, it couldn’t be put back together.  If Jim’s eyes were wide with these overblown thoughts, it probably showed as mere lust.  His fingers were careful not to squeeze Sherlock’s, lest the need for something to hold onto at this point be any more obvious, and he licked his lips.  One last mad grasp for calm and control.  “So hasty,” Jim managed, eyebrows lifting curiously, damn it, but the casual air was blown to smithereens, he could barely breathe let alone speak.  “Do you want me that badly, Sherlock?”  It was only half a tease.  The other half desperately needed to make and hear Sherlock say yes. 

-

It was oh-so-refreshing to see someone as dominant and usually so cool-headed as Jim completely freeze under pressure, or when their correct buttons were pressed. The minuscule reactions, be they good or bad, were so telling and made Jim appear almost human for a moment before disappearing just as quickly, as the man realised this and obviously wished to remedy the situation. Moments like that were the ones that Sherlock enjoyed entirely, not bothering too much if Jim knew it or not. Sure, the teasing was all good fun to play around with, but it was those tiny glimpses that the criminal did not manage to mask that made him want to pounce at that very moment, consequences of doing so be damned.

The momentary look of hesitation made him stop for a moment, stop smiling, almost stop breathing altogether. Had he, inadvertently, of course, done something wrong? Highly unlikely, as he had only been taking what Jim had been serving and dishing it out two-fold. Such was both the game and the detective's nature. No, it couldn't have been hesitation, then. They wouldn't have been sitting here if there was a hint of doubt in Jim's mind. What could it have been, then? Something else entirely, it had to be, something he couldn't quite figure out. His lovely company had always been a mystery to him and although it might have been at quite the inopportune time, that was what he did enjoy best.

Grateful, finally, for when Jim spoke, as the silence was a bit daunting, Sherlock carefully considered the final question with renewed curiosity. It was simple enough, of course, not enough to not be analyzed, however, as was always the case. He had to put away the deductions for a bit and focus on whatever answer jumped to attention first. Yes, obviously, or he wouldn't exactly be here at the moment. It was more than that, though - this wasn't a get together between two friends, as they weren't deserving of such a title. Were they? No, it was different. So different that Sherlock had to have a better answer than a simple 'yes'. "More than I would like to stay and listen to the concert," he began in an even tone, calmly. "As lovely as the music is," he continued, gaze dropping down to watch their hands, voice going to a whisper to avoid being heard by any stray eavesdroppers, "it didn't just offer to get on its knees for me." It was probably one of the dirtiest things he'd said, let alone to another person, and Sherlock was somewhat thankful that the low lighting was quite possibly the only thing hiding his slightly warmer face at that moment.

-

Sherlock had seen something in Jim’s wide eyes that he was not supposed to have seen.  Thankfully, there were more _pressing_ matters than the residual paranoia, and neither were willing to let it kill the moment.  As if that was a conscious decision to be made, when both of their brains seemed foggy.  Well, Sherlock was carrying on quite well as if it weren’t the case.  Jim knew instinctively to let him, and it made it all the easier to let himself cave to it.  Sherlock concealed his emotions as a rule, whereas Jim used his.  But the attempt at calm was a beautiful challenge, and it would only be all the more fun and rewarding when Sherlock’s ice melted away. 

So long as he kept Sherlock overwhelmed, Jim might seem less so himself.  It was sound logic, but perhaps too late.  A few kisses and hot whispers had set them on a collision course, and whether they collided here or anywhere else was barely a concern.  Sherlock’s words implied not just consent but _interest_ , the most overt expression of it that Jim had yet heard from him, and somehow it made his clothing feel mercilessly tighter, a throb against the zipper that was becoming an ache.  Sherlock might never have power over Jim professionally, but this, this bordered on unfair and ridiculous.  And somehow he never wanted it to end. 

Just knowing Sherlock wanted him was making it difficult to keep from writhing.  Despite a useless bloodless brain, the criminal mastermind had _plans_ , and they centered around _ruining_ Sherlock’s composure when the time was right.  And when might that be?  How were they possibly going to make it to the car?  To drive without crashing the damn thing?  To book a pretty little hotel room without necking against the check-in counter?  Jim had never been confronted with a wall of impossibilities such as these seemed now.  He even let out a small laugh at the idea, his head tipping back against the seat as he sighed, his legs parting just slightly, hips shifting as he faced Sherlock, cheek pressed to the back of the seat, vision glazed but eyes as big as ever.  “Not sure I can walk, darling, see what you _do_ to me?” Jim purred, sounding playfully miserable about it, his hand drawing Sherlock’s just a little nearer to his lap, his tongue running over his lips as he gazed at his better half’s perfect face.  Jim was thinking about kissing Sherlock’s plush, irresistible cupid’s bow again, and it was making him crazy, making him change his mind about ‘not here.’ 

-

How Jim could simply turn on him, and how easily he could make jokes at a time as crucial as this was beyond Sherlock, which was actually strange, considering he could normally mimic Jim word for word and have him struggling to keep up. Here, though, Sherlock was pulling at threads just attempting to keep his feelings in check. It would have been so easy and exactly what he wanted to jump, to make Jim's eyes as wide as they were at the moment, though for another reason other than obvious lust. The damn tease must have realised how the shifting of his hips, the posture, all the way down to the obvious temptation he was instilling into Sherlock just with a simple touch.

Sherlock watched with rapt attention and just a bit of a dry mouth as his hand was moved closer to Jim's lap, noticing the effect all of  this was having on the criminal; he would have to be oblivious not to. No wonder his infuriatingly lovely date didn't think he would be able to walk. Sherlock, on the other hand, would have jumped up at the drop of a hat, and most likely would then fall over due to wobbly knees. It would have been worth it, though perhaps Sherlock simply wasn't giving enough of an incentive. If Jim wanted to play the frustrating game, Sherlock would play and double the stakes, all with an innocent smile on his face.

Slackening his posture just a bit, the detective sighed heavily, as though bothered by Jim's words. He cleared his throat before starting, sure that a break in his voice would just be a bit of a tell-tale sign, and he couldn't have that, not when there was so much at  stake. "That's a shame," he began in as sultry a voice as possible, all to add to the effect. He lightly broke free of Jim's hold on his hand, slowly tracing it up and away from his lap. "Here I thought..." he continued, dragging them just below Jim's abdomen, pressing in just enough to make the other feel it even under his clothes. "...you were ready and raring to go." Sherlock removed his hand just as quickly as it had appeared, placing it strategically back in his own lap. "My mistake."

-

He had to give Sherlock credit where it was due: the casual air the detective managed to put on was rather a masterful display.  Infuriating, too – Jim’s right hand, out of view at his side, clenched into a fist as he watched the progress of Sherlock’s lovely fingers, and tried to suppress a hiss of pleasure at the teasing touch, at the way the baritone brought such sweet shivers when it crept too close to his ear.  _Okay, okay!  Breathe.  Christ, get yourself together._ Sherlock was winning this round and that just wouldn’t do.

Jim graced Sherlock for a moment with a withering look, but he didn’t really mean it.  It was reliance on their discord that might keep him relatively sane, and he looked away as quickly, biting his lip.  They certainly couldn’t remain here, because if they _were_ caught, Jim would happily kill anyone who attempted to interrupt them – Sherlock would probably enjoy that…

He was slow in rising from the chair, tugging the edges of his shirt to resettle the fabric, and claimed his jacket from the back of the seat.  He didn’t put it on but held draped it over his arm, so that it might somewhat conceal the problem Sherlock had caused, and leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder, lips brushing his ear, and curls tickling the side of Jim’s face.  “Oh, but I thought Sherlock Holmes _never_ makes mistakes…” he murmured, a dark growl in it, fingers brushing the other side of Sherlock’s neck, hoping to unnerve some of that calm, hoping his own goddamn trembling might go unnoticed.  Jim was too keyed up to think much of where they’d go or how they’d get there, but Sherlock was right, this wasn’t nearly private enough for bared skin and breathlessness.  “Would be a shame to start now.”  His hand drifted down over the other’s broad, purple-clad chest, a caress that drew itself away just as quickly in a swift upward motion, encouraging Sherlock to get up and to follow.  Jim was still delusional if he thought for a moment that he had the control in this situation, but…equal.  If anyone were worthy of stripping Jim of control even temporarily, it was the object of his obsession, who Jim didn’t have to look behind him as he started a slow departure from the box to know would follow. 

-


	6. Already exceeding temptation.

As much as Jim would not have enjoyed admitting it, everyone had to have their breaking point, and Sherlock was delighting on finding his lovely criminal's at the moment. There was no way he could be so unaffected by this, as Sherlock was having a difficult enough time hiding it himself. And why attempt to hide the obvious? It wasn't as though this was an act - it was the real thing, and the thought made his head dizzy with desire. Had Jim asked him to, he probably would have indulged himself right there in the theater, concealed by being in the back and the darkness but certainly not intending to keep quiet.

Jim never did fail to surprise him, though Sherlock wasn't exactly shocked as he began to rise from his seat. A small smirk, turned away to avoid the other's gaze, came across his features. He would have been lying if he said he wasn't exactly expecting the reaction, using that reverse psychology gimmick he'd occasionally heard about. Putting both hands on the seat to lift himself, it was stopped as Jim moved towards him and he stilled, expectantly listening. A small laugh escaped at Jim's words, quickly halted by the fingers on his neck tracing down his clothed chest. At least Jim certainly knew how to retaliate himself. Pushing himself up almost instantly after his company turned, he followed silently, determined simply to keep up.

Going through the aisles, a delicious but terrible idea graced Sherlock's mind and he smiled at the thought of it, as it was more devious than anything he usually was capable of. As they made their way through the darkened lanes, the detective waited until they had gotten to the end of one, all the while keeping close behind Jim, before reaching both hands out to grip the firm shoulders, stilling the man in front. "Allow me," was the practical purr he delivered to Jim and, oops, accidentally brushing into him from behind. It was an innocent but deliberate gesture and Sherlock had weaved his way to the front before Jim was the wiser, taking his hand gently before continuing the journey out of the hall.

-

The mere fact of being in motion was working slowly to restore the criminal to his senses.  The music was louder without Sherlock’s taunts distracting from it, and so very beautiful.  And it shocked him only a little, how large was the audience overall and how bad an idea the box would have been.  The awareness of their surroundings might have made him angry at himself for dropping his suspicions of the world so easily, but the awareness itself only lasted as long as Sherlock allowed it to.  At the press behind him Jim tensed, only just managing to bite back a groan and keep his eyes open.  Was that really necessary?  He’d threaten to kill Sherlock, but that wouldn’t exactly fall as news to the detective’s ears.  And it seemed entirely possible that Sherlock might kill him first.

He was smirking to himself.  Because in the end, he’d been right.  To single Sherlock out, to recognize him as imfuckingpossible as himself.  Neither of them ever really made mistakes, and every passing tease was proof Jim had been right to think Sherlock could be a lot of fun when properly inspired.  Play with fire, get burned; the hand in his own was so warm, and downright sensible and kind – rarely a word ascribed to the detective, one Jim would never use aloud - to act as a guide when the criminal was almost too dizzy to handle walking in a straight line.  He considered feigning a trip, a self-steadying hand that would land on something convenient, but he wasn’t that graceless.  Jim from IT had been, but Sherlock hadn’t liked him very much.  Though in this state, that could be different…

These trains of thought amused him for the short while it took to navigate the main of the hall, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s forcefully.  If he considered his own games and capabilities, it made Sherlock’s attempts to play him forgivable.  His mind sought anything strictly outside the bounds of their mutual and heated arousal, but it didn’t matter, because his brain was still just full of _Sherlock_.  Moran could call right now and tell him that the Iceman had taken possession of all his things, burned down his house and captured everyone in his handwritten phone books, and it just. wouldn’t. matter.  With any luck Sherlock might always doubt how deeply he ran in Jim’s veins, but nights like these were very telling. 

He was struggling to keep his eyes off the lithe form beside him, the curls he wanted to pull on until Sherlock cried out, the fine tailoring he wanted to rip apart at the seams…too much, just too much.  Jim was unwilling to share him with the lobby lights just outside the doors, where ushers and employees and probably old ladies were milling around, would peer at them and wonder why they were leaving early, no, the shadows were theirs, and Jim searched them for doors leading anywhere else.  He spotted one to their right, not under the auditorium seats but leading away from them.  When Sherlock reached the exit to the lobby first, Jim tugged him back gently, catching his eyes.  He stood taller and stopped Sherlock with a kiss, a soft one that didn’t even begin to hint at the fire behind it, his body pressing just slightly into the taller man’s, knees tempted to give out at the sudden rush of heat.  A quiet grunt of appreciation sounded in his throat, letting Sherlock hear it, and his hips pressed even closer.  “No alarm,” he whispered, head tilting slowly towards the door, a grin giving the breathless lust written all over his features a lopsided, devious edge.   “Shall we see where it leads?”  Considering Sherlock had recently chased him through an alley and over a fence, this was small in comparison, but the decision had to be made quickly if they wished to avoid being seen. 

-

The added darkness truly was an advantage for Sherlock, as he could do what he pleased without first thinking of the repercussions of his actions later, which wasn't exactly his normal routine. Something about Jim made him simply not care, take a whole consequences be damned approach to his own situation. Which, coupled with someone as reckless as him, would most likely not fare well. Something had to give eventually, and Sherlock was glad that they were up and moving rather than stationary, where something could happen that could indeed get them into trouble. He idly wondered if anyone in the nearby rows had even seen that last little attempt to unravel. It was such inappropriate behaviour for the occasion, but then again, when did they ever play nice or adhere to the rules? The music had proved to be entertaining for all of a few passing minutes, but something physically stimulating would prove to be the highlight of the evening, if they could simply make it to the damn exit.

Sherlock nearly bolted for the lobby as it finally came into sight, but the urgent yet gentle pull of Jim behind him made the detective turn, only to be greeted with a soft, warming kiss. They weren't exactly out of the theatre yet, but at least it was somewhat more concealed by the darkness... Ah. Of course Jim wouldn't take the risk out here, even if Sherlock would have been completely willing to. It was a bit strange, to take advantage of a possibly empty room in the hall when they were so close to the exit, but the thought of having to drive and delay the instant gratification that the two of them could get now... Sherlock practically pulled the criminal all the way to the mystery door after giving him his own devious grin. At the very least, save the room wasn't actually a restroom or any other room that people currently resided in, they would have the luxury of a door and possibly a lock, which was important for the purpose they were a _ctually_ going to be using it for.

In front of the door, Sherlock gave a glance to both sides to make sure no one was coming, but practically everyone in the audience was enthralled with the music. He opened it and silently ushered both himself and Jim inside before closing the door just as quickly, listening for a moment to see if anyone had followed or if there was any signs of life inside of the room. When there was nothing but the muffled sound of the music, Sherlock quietly sighed in relief, turning back around to face Jim. Or, where Jim supposedly was. Lights, of course. His hand reached out to find a light switch and, flicking it on, it was revealed as what appeared to be a simply supply closet, though quite roomy and organised. "I believe we're safe in here," he reported to his company, pleased that it had actually worked out rather than ending in a disaster. "Even though we didn't actually make it out of the building." It was a tease, coupled with a smile to add to the effect.

-

The sudden and absolute darkness was almost as thrilling as Sherlock’s grin.  Sherlock had been doing a lot of smiling tonight, actually, and Jim couldn’t help wondering how much of it was self-amusement or how much had to do with his own bad influence.  His breathing was audible over the softened music and Jim hated, just a little, that Sherlock had pushed him to such a point while seeming comparatively calm.  If this didn’t hold Sherlock’s _interest_ , well, there was really no point to it whatsoever, but it was beyond Jim just now to let his brain suck all the fun out of the moment.  His hand didn’t quite let go of the other, fingers unclasping only to drift up Sherlock’s forearm and to his side, keeping some point of contact throughout.  The light was harsh in how it flooded the room and gave it meaning and purpose, when it didn’t need either, though it was good to know where the walls and limits of the room stood.  “The epitome of class…” Jim teased back, averting his eyes for a moment, and reaching over, locked the door with a click that sounded much louder to him than it probably was.

Jim liked Sherlock’s smile but was tired of it, too.  Their careful balance was in an unbalanced state, adding to the small room an air of uncertainty.  He was riled up and nervous, and needed the former to conceal the latter from the one person who could read past his usual defenses.  Needed to see Sherlock come undone, or he couldn’t really believe any of this was happening, or allow it to – the power the younger Holmes had over Jim’s senses was terrifying in its scope.  Jim spotted a small stack of chairs in his periphery, and tossed his jacket in their general direction.  The unfamiliar floor wouldn’t do for clothes, though if it came down to it, there were many things Sherlock’s presence could talk him out of caring about.  _Smitten_ was a disgusting word but not that far from the truth, and refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes again immediately, watched his own thumb brushing Sherlock’s side over the purple fabric, retrained his gaze on the hardworking buttons, heat in the wandering, appraising gaze.  His other hand squeezed Sherlock’s other hip and stayed, and the closeness was sweet and very nearly unbearable.  Such an egotistical advantage Sherlock would have, if he knew exactly how many times this had crossed Jim’s mind.

Irresistible, to close the space before those incredible eyes had him locked again.  The opening of the shirt was too tempting, and Jim swayed a little on his toes when he leaned in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s throat, fingers sliding up to tap at the rectangular box in Sherlock’s upper pocket.  “Tell me about these,” he breathed, wanting Sherlock to keep talking until he couldn’t anymore.  “Was it just to see whether I’d notice…or whether I’d care?”  His lips and tongue made a study of veins and tiny birthmarks, testing out spots, his hand on the Englishman’s hip keeping their lower halves a safe distance apart, a futile last-ditch effort to maintain control. 

-

Jim's own reactions compared to that of Sherlock's thus far would only have to be described as completely the polar opposite of what he was expecting from both of them. It was entirely strange, and just the tiniest bit thrilling, to recognise himself as the one with the slight advantage of being calm and collected. How could he afford not to be, in such a situation as this? In public, darting around like a couple of teenagers. It was silly, but the most entertainment he had experienced in quite a while. He was breathing fast, but kept it silenced, really only wanting to hear the sound of Jim's above his own. That was what it was all about, actually, wanting to find out everything about his company without having to ask. Wanting to find out for himself what exactly got Jim's heart pumping. Evidently, their daring escape seemed to contribute a great factor.

Jim's own unwillingness to release Sherlock's hand for even a second was telling as well, bristling but leaning into the warm touch at his side. It was all but sentimental, which when involving the criminal was the last word that came to mind. He chose not to respond to the comment, only half caring that they had only made it to a closet and not even possessed the ability to make it to the car. If Sherlock were truly bothered by it, he would have dragged Jim out himself. No, it only added to the fun, as far as Sherlock was concerned. There would be plenty of time to bother with class later, when they were both all but desperately attempting to find an escape. Class disregarded at such an important time, when Jim was casually tossing his jacket away. Sherlock told himself to perhaps do the same, though taking one look back to Jim made him stop the motion entirely and, of course, make him remember that he was not actually wearing a jacket.

Of course, actually looking up and seeing Jim's face was a bit of a cause of not worry, but more concern. He looked absolutely on edge, as if he didn't exactly know how to ascertain what he was feeling. Sherlock was about to ask what exactly was on his mind at that given moment, as that was always so telling and, for possibly once in a lifetime, he genuinely cared for the answer. But then Jim's hand was resting on his hip and Sherlock felt compelled to still, obey the silent command that had been given and simply savor the closeness between the two consultants. It was a nice feeling just being held in place, for once not having to calculate what his next move should be, instead letting himself feel it, and then there was Jim's mouth on his throat and he all but melted underneath the hold. It was a struggle just to keep standing and understand Jim's question, what exactly he meant by it. For a split second Sherlock forgot what exactly was in his pocket, and then the evening came back to him, stealing Jim's cigarettes just for kicks. 

"I just wanted a cigarette," he responded in between heavy, short bursts of breaths. That of course was an entirely stupid answer but he couldn't be bothered to come up with a better one whilst the criminal insisted on tonguing his throat. "Besides, you..." A quick gasp followed by his eyes closing, a hand pressing against Jim's back to urge him closer. "...are the one who tempted me." A sudden press against the other, only just pinning him to the locked door behind them, all whist making direct eye contact with the object of his current attention and affection. Sherlock put up a hand to steady himself against Jim, narrowing his eyes but still breathing heavily. "Much like you are now, actually."

-

Sherlock’s ragged breaths only fell on Jim’s ears as an encouragement, and he couldn’t help but smile at the half-arsed answer.  He’d given Sherlock a cigarette, and still been adorably pickpocketed, so there had to be more to it – but if the usually so articulate detective was having trouble calling up his reason, that was a very good sign.  At the sound of the gasp he shivered, oh, _yes_ , he wanted to hear more of _that_ ; coupled with persistent press of Sherlock’s large hand, Jim was reeling, drunk on fantasy turning wondrously, tangibly, malleably real. 

Sherlock’s voice saying such flattering things alone might have wound a spell around Jim, but there was so much more than that assailing his senses and clouding his thoughts, so much heat and barely-restrained force.  When Sherlock’s body crashed against his own, _fuck_ , Jim thought he might pass out.  It was useless and an insult to even try to suppress the obscene sound that fell from his lips, and every doubt he may have had as to Sherlock’s interest disappeared, and it was suddenly very difficult to keep still, hips writhing, an almost desperate sound in his throat.  Fully dressed, barely touched, but letting those eyes bore into his own made Jim feel more exposed than naked, more undone than any touch might achieve.  To see a blush across Sherlock’s pale cheeks, to know he’d caused it, Jim was positively falling apart. 

“And what are you so tempted towards?” he teased, breath stuttering, as one leg rose to the back of Sherlock’s, curled around it, the slight shift only pressing Sherlock closer.  His hand rose to Sherlock’s chest, feeling the pulse of the pounding heart beneath ribs and muscles, palm stroking warmly over one surprisingly hard nipple before moving to the top straining button, fingers making it pop open and reveal more skin in so satisfying a fashion that Jim wanted to unbutton the whole thing.  “Because...you know…the only way to get rid...of a temptation...darling…is to yield to it.”  The Wilde quote was talking big, for someone who was doing so much yielding himself.  But how could he not?  Whatever Sherlock would give him or wanted with him, Jim would take.  Happily.  That’s what made this more dangerous than any game they’d ever played, is that it may or may not _mean_ something, may or may not be a _weakness_ , and drawing this side of Sherlock out to play was simultaneously Jim’s best and worst decision.  At the moment, it was leaning towards Best.  His other hand flew to Sherlock’s hair, tangling almost roughly in the black curls, all the better to hold him closer as his hips rocked of their own volition.  Were Jim less enamored of the present friction, he might make good on the earlier offer, but couldn't yet find the willpower to try and break away. 

-

It seemed that Sherlock's little display of power for a brief second seemed to have been welcomed, and if the sound that Jim made that Sherlock was certain he would never have heard in his life was any indication to go by, he was enjoying this even more than he let on. The detective's piercing gaze was something he normally only reserved for making people falter under it, though it was proving to be quite useful in undoing Jim as well. It was music to Sherlock's ears, and it would be a personal goal to make his lovely company make just a few more sounds like it before the evening was over. With a quick look down, breaking the spell for just a second, he moved his hands to rest on Jim's responsive hips, gripping just so not to stop the movement but feel it for himself. 

The question that Jim posed had all but a million answers, and it would be difficult to choose the perfect one. He could have showed rather than told what exactly he was so temped toward, as he was doing a fairly bang-up job of it at the moment, giving one slow, experimental roll of his hips against the criminals, immediately regretting the decision as he nearly felt his knees give out at the motion. A strained groan seemed to be the only answer Sherlock was capable of the moment, though he was working on it, still trying to articulate it, as anything could have been better than 'jumping your bones', literally and figuratively. With head hanging just so and lips parted only slightly drawing ragged, uneven breathing, it would have been fairly easy to rip Jim's hand away and dip his head to return the teasing, but that was to be saved for later, hopefully with less layers of clothing involved. For now, Sherlock would happily accept the slow torture of Jim's dragging fingers, watching with subtle fascination as the first button on his own dress shirt was opened. Coupled with the Wildean quote that made all the much more sense at the moment, it was safe to say they were both yielding quite well, and Jim only need look down to see exactly how well.

The hand that had found its way to his hair only made him press further into Jim, his rocking hips pulling forth a deliberate whine from Sherlock's throat. It was with great difficulty that he opened his mouth without a stream of profanities following, but feeling compelled to grace the other with an answer. "Why, throwing all caution to the wind, of course," he shakily began, digging fingers into Jim's hips, not hard enough to leave bruises but enough to make an impression. "And, for once in my life..." he continued, dislodging his fingers from hips, slowly, deliberately tracing down Jim's sides. "Indulging myself." The explanation was ended with Sherlock's hands cupping Jim's arse and, with a sudden pull forward, and his own self pushing against, a moan escaped that he tried to bite back, but with no success, his head fell forward to rest on Jim's shoulder, stars behind his eyes.

-

It wasn’t easy to silence all the alarm bells, rules of caution and looming black clouds in Jim’s brain, but this was doing the trick almost too well.  Keeping an eye on Sherlock had always been a pleasurable distraction, but this was more than just watching; this was something like being at Sherlock’s mercy, or so it felt.  Every rumbling moan was like a personal attack on Jim’s sanity and control, neither of which he really needed at the moment.  Indulgence…yes.  While it was obvious to Jim that Sherlock was addicted to his mind, to hear himself referred to as an outlet for indulgence, that was very promising, indeed. 

He tensed in Sherlock’s gripping hands, drawing breath in a hiss, exhaling on a whimper as they crashed into each other again.  “Sh-…Sherlock!…oh, fuck…”  Dazed, velvet-voiced nonsense exclamations, unable to hold them back.  Were they anywhere else and better prepared, the word ‘me’ might have followed, but got lost in hot breath and lips pressed to the taller man’s neck, teeth grazing.  Oh, but if they’d only waited – a comfortable bed, and anything could happen, Sherlock could be fucking him right now, or the other way around.  The thoughts made the criminal’s head spin, the full-body tremble only more obvious.  This was unbearably good and not good enough, though almost, _almost_.  If they kept on like this, Jim might be pushed over the edge with very little effort aside from the impassioned friction of persistently rocking hips.  After the night’s teasing, the long week, the goddamn years of obsession that had ruled his idle hours, the slightest move on Sherlock’s part could send Jim over the edge, and it seemed a very bad idea to let Sherlock know it.  Some vulnerabilities were just too exploitable. 

His attention hadn’t held with the buttons, fingers instead slipping beneath the shirt, mapping out overheated skin, ragged nails likely leaving pink lines upon surprisingly soft skin.  Jim could probably take a knife to that skin and it might go unnoticed right now.  How delicious a thought, and how unnecessary, but that it probably hadn’t occurred to Sherlock to be even the least bit afraid was an impressive thing.  Jim’s teeth nipped a spot low on Sherlock’s neck, hard but only for a second, the hand in Sherlock’s curls moving to grip the purple fabric against his back.  “I want…Let me…”  The words were husky and barely made it out, useless to even try!  Showing better than telling.  The hand on Sherlock’s chest slipped lower, finding just enough space between their bodies to press his palm to Sherlock’s bulge, feeling him out properly, and if Jim hadn’t been weak in the knees before, he was now.  Yes, there was really very little point in standing, when he could do more damage at half-height.  Licking his lips, he smiled against Sherlock’s neck and tried for words again.  “Lemme… _indulge_ you…Daddy won’t bite…” 

-

It was entirely possible that the world could come crashing down around them and Sherlock wouldn't have noticed it in the least.  There was nothing that required his undivided attention at the moment except Jim pressed against him so closely and the sounds escaping from his currently undevoured throat. Sherlock made a note to remedy that later, when Jim's gorgeous mouth was forming his own name in such a dirty, delicious way - his name had been yelled out of anger, frustration, even happiness but never like that. Coupled with the usually soothing lilt of Jim's accent, it was absolutely delightful, something that he indeed wished to hear again, preferably with more profanities accompanying it. 

He laughed in a low, throaty chuckle as Jim finally ventured to find skin rather than fumbling with his buttons, not blaming him for wanting instant gratification, biting his lip in a futile attempt to hold in a gasp as Jim nipped at his sensitive neck. It seemed to be a favourite spot of his, made Sherlock obediently bare it even more to give additional access to it. It took everything in his power to keep from leaning against the other with his full body and simply rocking away; although it would have been delightful to finish off as quickly as possible, the slow, deliberate teasing was even better, even if it was twice as torturous. He leaned in a bit to hear Jim's mumbled words, not quite understanding but feeling the rush of heat all the same.

And then Jim upped the ante. A startled 'oh!' tumbled from Sherlock's lips as his lower half stopped moving altogether, simply pressing into the unexpected but definitely welcomed touch. It was exciting and terrifying altogether, and though he was well aware of what exactly was going to happen once he had started this entire game with Jim, it was still something he had not entirely been prepared for. This was the criminal only separated from him by only a few layers of clothing, something that would need to be remedied very soon or the detective would be forced to take matters into his own hands quite literally. With two steady hands still locked onto Jim's hips, Sherlock flipped them around, his back now pressing into the door. Thrusting once deliberately into Jim's grip, Sherlock leaned in to whisper into the other's ear, exhaling hotly before forming the crucial words. "I would love that," he began in between labored breaths, wrapping a hand to rest possessively on the back of Jim's neck, squeezing just barely. "Though I don't think you'll be having much of a choice in that, actually." 

-

Oh, he loved those _oh_ ’s Sherlock made.  Seen them several times from cameras pointed at crime scenes, how surprise or a mental lightbulb flashing on would turn that cupid’s bow into a perfect, pretty circle.  Even out of the corner of his eye, it was gorgeous.  The sudden loss of pressure and contact was so torturous as to make Jim wonder why he'd suggested it, but he shifted easily at the hands on his hips' urging, like the step of a dance, their waltz no less complicated for the form it had taken.  It would surprise Jim a little if he'd been correct with the nickname he'd suggested to the dashing Miss Adler, but if it was true, he planned on rendering Sherlock as mindless and incoherent as he felt himself, starting with the squeeze over the fabric.  There was nothing to indicate Sherlock was remotely shy - a sheet at Buckingham Palace, _honestly_ \- and that was a good thing.  He leaned into the body heat and remaining contact, a sweet shiver caused by the breath against his ear, fingers splaying out only to curl again around Sherlock’s trapped erection.  It was difficult to say how long they’d have the little room to themselves, but even more difficult to care. 

What some might be lost enough to view and feel as a simple touch, Jim knew better.  The hand on his neck combined with Sherlock’s words were downright fascinating, touching upon some hidden part of Jim’s psyche – not to mention Sherlock’s own - that very few might ever know enough about to manipulate.  But if Sherlock was looking for a battle of wills just now, he might be disappointed.  That Jim had tensed, that his nostrils flared, that his eyes had widened and were as intense as ever despite the haze of lust, that his jaw tightened and his teeth had clamped down on his tongue, most of these little indicators were hidden against collarbone and shoulder, aside from leaning as if compelled, finding delicious pressure again against Sherlock’s upper thigh.  He could buck the comment, slip away from the hand, but he didn’t want to.  And it was better, really, if Sherlock underestimated Jim’s ability to resist him.  Such as it was. 

“ _Really_ , Sherlock?” Jim asked, words drawn out teasingly, barely above a whisper.  His fingers found the button and undid it, taking their time with the zipper.  “I mean…it’s a good thing I _want_ to, or it sounds like you’d be _rough_ with me.”  Jim was panting, legs shaking, Christ, at least kneeling would hide the fact better, but this all too compelling tease was adding some worth to remaining upright as long as possible, fingers drifting along the band of the remaining fabric, dipping just below it.  His lips pursed against Sherlock’s neck one last time before Jim slowly lowered, expensive trousers and the floor’s dubious cleanliness ignored, free hand drawing up the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.  His fingers wrapped around Sherlock again, hot and stroking slowly through the last layer separating them, and he leaned in to lick a playful circle around Sherlock’s navel.  “Then again…”  His hands worked now on easing the trousers down just enough, making the overwhelmed detective look rather wonderfully debauched as Jim’s gaze ran over pale thighs and abdomen, jutting arousal, all up Sherlock’s body until they met the blue ones again.  “I might like that.”  Jim licked his friction-reddened lips as his hands worked to bare Sherlock entirely, gaze returned to the current point of focus, saliva pooling on his tongue as he took in the sight of Sherlock _hard_ , for _him_.  Not for the first time, hopefully not the last, but the first he’d been invited to _do_ something about it.  Something infuriating, like pressing an almost reverent kiss to Sherlock’s inner thigh, trace of stubble and hot breath brushing porcelain skin, holding out on both of them as long as he could, just to make Sherlock squirm. 

-

The main thought crossing Sherlock's mind at the moment was something of a mixture between _oh god this is really happening_ and _I have no idea what I'm currently doing._ Of course, the former was at the forefront, a constant reminder that this was most definitely not a dream nor a hallucination. Oh, if it were, he would never want to wake up from it. The persistent press on his bulge from Jim's fingers was driving him wild, a controlled chaos that would be threatening to take over at any moment. Keep a cool head, or maybe not; it was imperative to show that Sherlock was well-versed in this particular activity. It was a complete lie, though hopefully it wouldn't show too much, and he got the feeling that Jim didn't exactly care. Sherlock wouldn't lie, if he asked, of course, but the thought was lost as the criminal's nimble fingers finally popped the buttons of his trousers open and the tell-tale sound of a zipper filled the room, Sherlock's hitching breath along with it. 

Jim's taunting words were just barely registering, and their meaning was profound, making Sherlock smile even through a rough pattern of breathing. Jim was a damned liar if he both said he didn't want this and didn't enjoy it rough; he could tell that much even  through his inexperience. A witty retort was just about to be fired back - how he found the mental capacity to even form coherent thoughts at that moment was a mystery, really - but was cut short and redirected entirely to a sudden, sharp intake of breath at the cool touch of his skin. It was with distracted fascination that he watched Jim kneel, following intently and shivering as more skin was revealed to the cool air. It would have been quite the show to any outsiders watching, seeing the usually unflappable detective's eyes immediately shut and mouth fall open at the same time as Jim stroked him through the final layer of his clothing. What a damn _tease_. A hissed " _Jim_ ," followed, perhaps not even coherently in response to the torturous tongue on his navel and it was taking so much of his will to not waver, simply keep his legs still standing. His eyes slit open to watch once the other had pulled away, eyes only widening slightly once Jim met his own. 

A deliberate, drawn-out whine and a stutter of Sherlock's hips at the feel of Jim's stubble, and a simple kiss so close. There were more sensations than he had ever felt before, even better than the natural rush he got when solving a case or a secret cigarette indulged on at the morgue, and it was all because of the gorgeous distraction currently on his knees. Sherlock threaded a hand through Jim's short locks, only mussing lightly as he watched through half-lidded eyes. A pleading whisper escaped, huskier than expected and clearing his throat, tried again. "Please, Jim. Indulge me." 

-

Thirty million quid, bomb teams, planning and flirting, gifts of clues, friendly fire, ah, _now_ Jim had Sherlock right where he wanted him.  Writhing.  Struggling to form words, even to think.  It was like taking cold clay and warming it up, his own work of art.  And perhaps that was what he’d been waiting for, for Sherlock to ask - and so nicely, as close to begging as Jim had the composure to wring from him.  The floor was hell on his knees but the criminal had certainly suffered worse, and for far less worthy reasons; he’d have leaned back but with a straightened spine the height was just right.  And he so wanted to get it right.  If the hungry half-moan that Jim let slip as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock was any indication, he was as eager to give as Sherlock was to receive.

His other drifted along Sherlock’s bare thigh, so unbelievably warm.  He considered toying further with this, demanding Sherlock recite the periodic table, just for the sake of that roll-of-thunder voice, but Jim decided he wanted to see what came naturally – and would have been disappointed, anyway, in his own…artistic process…if Sherlock managed to remember every element.  A dazed but delighted smile was on Jim’s lips, eyes drifting to his own fingers curled around Sherlock’s hard but velvet skin.  “Mmm…don’t I always?”  Indulging Sherlock in ways no one else could, that was his favorite hobby. 

Or perhaps second, after impressing the detective; and sex was, as all things were, an opportunity for showmanship.  Jim licked his lips lasciviously and let his tongue rest upon the lower one, teasing by mere proximity before it brushed the underside of just the tip, tasting Sherlock, breathing him in.  He rolled his tongue against the weight on it, showing an impressive amount of self-control for someone who’d given a considerable amount of thought to utilizing Sherlock as an amusement for his oral fixation, a goddamn human lollipop.  But with Sherlock’s hand in his hair, Jim was just daring it to grip - and struggling to breathe.  He’d been too long focused on the air between them, to the point where Jim could have sworn he felt some twinge of the exquisite himself, when with a soft purr his dark lashes fluttered, and his lips closed around Sherlock and sucked.

-


	7. So keep your charm where I can't see it, and your hands where I can.

Oh, this was an infinitely better solution to a number of problems Sherlock faced: the ever-incessant boredom, the inability to put his mind on hold for one goddamn minute, and the search for a high even better than ones achieved from his line of work were simply a few. The only thought that should and could cross his mind at the moment was Jim. Jim's fingers gripping him, not tightly, but enough to make an impression. Jim seeming to get as much pleasure out of this as he was giving to Sherlock, if his pleased little moan was anything to go by. How a short time ago, it wasn't even a blip in his mind that he would be standing here, with difficulty, albeit, with Jim Moriarty eagerly waiting beneath him. Had he been in a right state, the thought that this was indeed a very compromising situation for the consulting criminal would have occurred to him. However, the only thing that registered was how unbelievably turned on he was at the moment, made undone by a simple touch.

It was quite a sight to see, and Sherlock unabashedly looked down to watch himself in Jim's hands, the other bringing a cool touch to his thigh. A kind, gentle act in the midst of such a heated situation - sentimental, almost. Jim letting him know that he had wanted to do this just as much as Sherlock did, a mutual, wanted understanding. With baited breath, he gazed through nearly-closed eyes as Jim finally made good on his promise with a simple tiny lap of his tongue, a sudden gasp being the first reaction to the new development, followed by a quiet groan deep in the detective's throat. It was a million cases wrapped into one, an infinite number of cigarettes in secret, better than both combined. His hand in the other's hair tightened just a bit, more showing his appreciation than trying to cause any damage, and how appreciative of Jim he was.

And then, his ability to think coherently came to a crashing halt.

His head rolled back to knock against the door at the first suck, a throaty moan accompanying it. Dear god, it was the dirtiest thing Sherlock had ever done and he absolutely loved it. "Ah, shit..." was the oh-so eloquent reaction, the profanity feeling foreign on his tongue but just right, given the circumstances, a fervent little whisper at the end of a panting breath. The other wandering hand steadied himself using Jim's shoulder, uncertain that if he attempted to move, his knees would give out underneath. Licking absentmindedly at his lips, he gave an almost unintelligible request. "More, please..."

-

Jim Moriarty had seen art and architecture in nearly every major city in the world, but had never seen anything as unforgettably beautiful as Sherlock coming apart.  He could have lived with it never happening, sure, but why should he have to?  Why, when Sherlock uttering common curses and _pleas_ was the most gorgeous sound he'd ever heard?  Sympatico, kismet, whatever, feeling Sherlock twitch on his tongue and tremble beneath his hands was almost as good as feeling it himself.  A sweet victory, this flame that refused to remain within just one or the other of them, but consumed both.   
  
There was no sense in drawing out the tease, given that the room promised nothing as prolonged privacy went, but did provide the oh-so-necessary thrill of the _idea_ of danger.  A lock on the door only meant so much, and wasting time went against all reason.  Sherlock slid so easily between his lips, an inch and another, Jim moaning wantonly around him as his tongue pressed up, using even the roof of his mouth to stimulate sensitive skin.  The hand in his hair was a mere facsimile of control.  Jim played into it, yes, but when his dark eyes traveled up Sherlock's lithe, towering frame again, they said one thing and one thing only: _you are mine_.  
  
If the message was remotely possible to miss in the heat of the gaze, it was evident in everything else; the circled fingers that pumped slowly, drawing Sherlock further into his eager mouth, Jim breathing hard through his nose.  He liked the hand on his shoulder, too, liked that it might at any moment join the other in force or desperation, though it was clear who had the advantage of maintained control.  For now.  Jim hummed around Sherlock as his lips slid almost entirely away, just brushing the head before wrapping around again.  No real rhythm though the music suggested one easily, still taking things slow so as to best gauge Sherlock's reactions; cruelly slow, the wet slide of his mouth until he felt Sherlock at the back of his throat, lips reaching the very root of his desire, leaving his hand free to wander.  His fingers snaked over bony hip and down his thigh before experimentally palming Sherlock's sacs, a distracting and distracted little squeeze before roving back up over pale skin.  Jim let an agonizingly slow rhythm build, dug his nails bitingly into hipbone in hopes of hearing more lovely noises, tongue swirling teasingly on a shallow suck.  When it deepened both Jim's hands gripped Sherlock's unbelievable arse, his own body shifting closer until, _oh, Christ_ , he found friction against Sherlock's leg and even that was almost overwhelmingly good, the criminal's moan with an edge of surprise at just how good, how necessary, as he forced himself to swallow, throat constricting tight around Sherlock, barely able to breathe but not caring so long as Sherlock felt the difference and enjoyed it. 

-

It was a dangerous idea, to spare a glance down at Jim, as Sherlock was nearly certain he could almost fall in love just by looking at the man on his knees. Prolonged exposure was sure to drive him insane, and he could already feel the effects of it but it was impossible to look away; it was an inevitably that the image would forever be burned into his mind, and yet Sherlock didn't have the slightest problem with it. He could wake up tomorrow and regret the entire night, but seeing Jim like this, feeling every subtle suck and slight graze of his tongue would either haunt or bless him for a long time. There was a certain flair with which Jim was currently driving him insane, almost opposite with how gentle the muted music sounded outside their private, self-claimed abode, and the sounds of Jim's own pleasure mixed with it had to have been the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

The intensity with which Jim had looked at Sherlock forced a swallow even though his mouth was bone dry at the moment and made him falter a bit, though he steadied himself, using Jim's shoulder as balance. Message indeed received. Even through the hazy wave of pleasure that the detective was having a difficult time finding his way through, it was doubtful that Jim could do what he was setting out to, even though the thought made him nearly salivate, until...oh. The only thought that could possibly have been running through Sherlock's head was that this could not possibly have been Jim's first time doing this, followed shortly after by it better not be the last, especially if Sherlock had something to say about it.

A yelp was the only thing he could say at the moment as Jim fondled him. Sherlock showed his appreciation by a hand tightening ever so slightly, the outburst culminating in a drawn-out moan of approval, and the slightest twitch of his hips as he greatly considered gripping the back of Jim's head and going to town. The criminal had been so pleasant with him, though, so eager to please and, of course, completely willing to throw caution to the wind and risk the possibility of getting caught and arrested because neither of the consultants had the patience to wait. That wouldn't bode well for Sherlock, and Jim was already taking such good care of him that it wouldn't have been fair. Of course, when such a lovely, tempting specimen was drawing him closer, and pressing so close, how could he not risk a single push into the welcoming heat? Jim swallowing around him only spurred him on further, the hand gripping his shoulder instead gripping the back of his head, daring one single, half-hearted thrust. Oh, lord. Sherlock's own head thrown back, a rumbling moan being ripped from his throat, eyes closing from the sheer pleasure. It would be torture having to resist _that_  again. 

-

The choked, delirious sound that rose in Jim’s throat was too hoarse and deep to be called a whimper but was tinged with surprise and urgency, a full-body shudder passing through him without permission.  Hell!  From a business perspective, allowing Sherlock to get away with much of anything was terrible form, which made it a very good thing that Jim cared fuck all for business at the moment.  All he could think about was Sherlock slick on his tongue,  and wanting him badly enough to take what he pleased.  _Good boy, use me, use me like you use everyone else, but better, harder._

His eyes wide, Jim didn’t allow it so much as fall happy prey to it, though if Sherlock ever used the submission against him elsewhere, the detective’s status would fall from lover to serious liability.  It was bad enough that he wasn’t too far from humping Sherlock’s leg like a _dog_.  Wasn’t it convenient, then, that he wasn’t the only one so lost in the moment?  Had Sherlock allowed him some foresight and clear-mindedness, he might have set his phone to recording, both as insurance and to have Sherlock’s moans at his disposal forever. 

_Darling.  Addict.  I’m yours and you can do anything you want, take it all out on me, fuck my mouth for as long as you like if it makes you feel better._

To make a perfect circle of his mouth and speed up the friction, was easier than trusting Sherlock’s teeth near him.  To keep from grinding against Sherlock’s leg was utterly impossible, but better somehow than losing to that taunting, dark chocolate, usually too self-amused voice.  His nails raking hard over Sherlock’s arse could only be construed as encouragement, a whine sounding in his throat as his brain ran over all those things that he had always thought about Sherlock, things he wanted to say but it was bad manners to talk with one’s mouth full.  In some cases, that was for the best, as Sherlock might not appreciate all the words

_John will never do this for you, but I will._

that flitted unbidden into his brain, and only made him more eager.  He could feel his own pulse between his legs, an imperfect pleasure but better than nothing, and the harder Sherlock gripped him, the harder he gripped back.

-

It could have been a hallucination and in Sherlock's current state, he wouldn't exactly be surprised, but Jim seemed not entirely bothered by his momentary lapse in control which was odd and not something Sherlock had planned on. There was of course the surprise of it, and Jim could have been the most experienced man in London and Sherlock would still have expected the barely audible choke. But there was no pulling away, or death glare directed at him. If anything, Jim was almost encouraging him if the hands on his backside were any indication, and Sherlock was always one for non-verbal cues, especially if being verbal was rendered unnecessary at the moment and touch was the only thing he could go by. His hands shifted in Jim's hair so as to gain better access, more of a fixed point of balance for his own sake than Jim's.

There was sudden realisation in Sherlock's eyes, almost taking his own breath away. With a look down at Jim, Sherlock licked his lips before attempting to form anything resembling coherent. "You like it," he breathed, just loud enough over the music for the criminal to hear. He could have been dead wrong, but as was ever the mantra for the two of them, Sherlock _was_ Jim and it was a damned funny thing, but he didn't feel wrong. There were dire consequences if so, but he was a bit too far gone to really care about one of Jim's vague threats at the moment, should one be fired at him. The evidence was quite overwhelming, however, and Jim pressing against his leg was one of the bigger points in his defense. Jim going neglected in their current situation was a bit unfortunate, though Sherlock could always make up for it later.

Steeling himself, and preparing for any potential backfires, unlikely as they may have been, the detective shifted his hips forward in one fluid movement, more heart in it than the last time and once again let out a deepened groan of satisfaction. To be fair, he backed up as far as he could go against the door, so as not to asphyxiate Jim just for his own benefit, but then began the slowest rhythm as possible, never delving as far as he could into Jim's open mouth but damn nearing it, his mouth falling open in a silent moan while he gripped the strands of Jim's hair for dear life.

-

Sherlock’s observation was one it really didn’t take a genius to figure out.  But it had less to do with the ‘it’ in question than the person on whom the criminal was lavishing his attention.  He’d only ever let Sherlock see one side of him at a time, and this submissive state seemed the most convenient, given the circumstances, to which to set his mind and body.  He had so many sides, so many mindsets.  Anything else from Jim in the future – demands, control, voicing the occasional daydream of tying the detective up and owning him completely - would strike Sherlock as a surprise, just as much as this had.

Which _wasn’t_ to say he didn’t like it.

Jim liked not having to be in control for awhile, was perhaps part of it.  Far more alluring was the knowledge he was giving Sherlock the same reprieve, however base and short-lived it may be.  This wasn’t just sex, this was letting one’s guard down for five goddamn seconds, long enough to live a little – ‘indulge’ had been the right word.  Were it possible to answer verbally, instead of with lifted eyebrows and a pleased, voiceless laugh around Sherlock between his lips, he’d make a deduction of his own, that Sherlock clearly liked it, too. 

As it was, Jim could only hum a distracted affirmative, huffing breaths rapidly through his nose as one hand eased up and wandered, nails grazing over Sherlock’s lower back and down again, sensation creation.  He moved willingly with the pace set by the other’s hips but let Sherlock’s hand be the guide, but when it tightened in his hair, the barest trace of warning combined with the overwhelming lust was enough to rip an almost animalistic sound from the Irishman. 

Nobody’d fucking get away with it if he didn’t want them to.  Get away with the little spark of pain that set his heart pounding faster, hips arching outward.  The hand barely caressing Sherlock’s skin slipped away, down, he couldn’t take the pressure, needed…needed _more_ , fingers practically ripping the button from his trousers in haste.  The subtext may have been _See? I don’t need_ _you_ , but he did hope Sherlock was still watching.  Still mentally patting himself on the back for making such good deductions, because Jim was shameless when he wished to be, and it was far more fun knowing Sherlock’s eyes were on him, all of him, from the hollowed cheekbones to the caressing tongue and lips and the pale hand making quick work of the zipper on his own black trousers. 

-

The compliance from Jim was maddening, surely enough to make someone like Sherlock power hungry over it, which was a dangerous thing in and of itself. Made worse - or better, he still wasn't entirely sure - by the fact that they could be discovered by any random passersby, and Sherlock made a mental note to bite his lip more in the future lest he inadvertently become part of the show himself. It was the dirtiest and the best, and the worst thing he had ever done - was currently still doing. Being able to take Jim like this, use him for almost anything he wished to at that moment...the possibilities made his head spin. And had he done become the criminal? Their current location was certainly not legal by any standards, but finding both the energy and the effort to care was a useless endeavour, put towards a much better objective at the moment. The most interesting case in the world could be waiting at his flat and Sherlock would blow it off six ways from Sunday if he could keep Jim on his knees for just a while longer, though if the pleased noises were anything to go by, he didn't have much to worry about.

As such, Sherlock only need look down to remind himself that this was actually happening, that it wasn't a sick fantasy. No, it was heaven itself, perfect over and over again. Keeping his hands locked in Jim's hair was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment, and he increased the speed marginally, driving his hips quicker but still with deliberate movements, always making sure to accommodate to Jim. Making a good impression was important, especially if this wasn't going to be the last time and for someone as important as Jim. Even in the throes of ecstasy, Sherlock was well aware of exactly who he was dealing with and reminded himself not to press his luck. The criminal may have been more than willing to submit at the moment, but personal and professional life was different and to assume that Jim would ever mix the two was damn foolish, could backfire worse than he could imagine. Even if Jim wasn't the crime mogul that he was, Sherlock still would take great care, which is the precise reason why he eased up a bit, tenderly ran an almost loving hand through Jim's hair, simply taking time to admire the lovely distraction at his heels.

The harsh sound from the man's throat surprised him some, and Sherlock watched with muted fascination and wonder as one of Jim's hands retreated to his own body, followed by the sound of clothes scuffling. From the angle,  the detective was unable to fully see exactly what the other was doing, but from the sound of the zipper he could take a fairly decent guess. He had planned on returning the favour, but couldn't really blame Jim for being eager at the same time. The strong grip returned as Sherlock resumed his earlier pace with gusto, a pleased moan leaving his lips as the friction returned. "Darling," he got out in a trembling voice, dark and low in a velvety whisper, favouriting one of Jim's preferred terms of endearment. "You're simply _gorgeous_." He knew Jim was unable to reply, and didn't want him to, but wanted to express the sentiment all the same.

-

The moment of gentleness in the touch was surprising, and not exactly what Jim was after; the rough grip was far more familiar and closer to the heart of the matter.  A smidgen of eager brutality, that was well in line with everything between them, and Jim had always suspected Sherlock to be smitten with such opportunities.  Jim loved it.  He craved Sherlock constantly, and now he was getting his fix.  Sight, sound, taste, scent, touch – the gorgeous bastard had invaded all of Jim’s tangible senses and perhaps even the instinctual sixth, because whenever their eyes met, there was no doubt of understanding between them.  It was almost frightening sometimes.  Whether dancing around each other, all airs and intimidation, or while having a knee-trembler in a supply closet like damn schoolboys, the magnet-mirror of their minds never faltered.

Jim didn’t shy away from that eye contact now.  He sought it as he purposely swallowed, constricting his throat around Sherlock on a thrust, then another, teasing him even now though the pressure at the back of his throat made tears rise and shimmer hotly in his eyes, blinked back by long lashes.  Driven by the need to drive Sherlock as crazy as he felt himself, always, but in this circumstance the urge was more rewarding than some.  Experience aside, he couldn’t keep it up, catching a breath at the corner of his lips before they pursed again.  The discomfort became delightful when Jim could look at Sherlock’s parted lips, and imagine how good they’d look and feel around him.  The idea was by no means a new one but inspiring in everything from the devious way his tongue caressed when and where it could, to how slowly he drew himself out and stroked.  If it weren’t for the other keeping him in place Jim might have tipped backwards, the reprieve from the aching tightness of his clothing just that good, the friction so _fucking_ necessary at this point.

The moan that followed was obscene, flares of pleasure wrought from the twist of his own hand, though in his mind it was Sherlock’s pretty mouth, and he’d bet good money that Mr. Deduction realized as much.  The music drifted in one ear and right out the other, cut away and made irrelevant by the sweet, whispered words.  Unprecedented for Sherlock use pet names in earnest; Jim didn’t care what he said so long as he kept talking, because every word was pushing him nearer to the blissful brink.  The burn in Jim’s throat, the hard floor, nothing was enough to detract from how badly he wanted Sherlock.  If he could have Sherlock this way, he could have him any way, and maybe that knowledge would keep him from _wanting_ anymore.  But right now, Want was everything, and Jim could feel the building climax in his gut.  He wondered if his darling ‘Virgin’ was as close to the edge, and though it didn’t have to take pushing Sherlock over first, Jim desperately wanted to.  Then they could go back to being rational-minded philosophers, not distracted so easily by the waves of lust sweeping them away now.  Sherlock’s name was a string of filthy encouragements ran through his mind non-stop, oh, if only Sherlock could hear them, for they were manifest only in lustful noises rising in volume and pitch, their own passionate music mingling with what should have been the night’s chief entertainment.  It took something special to make such beautiful music pale so sorely in comparison.  For James Moriarty, it took Sherlock Holmes.

-

It would be so very simple to end the entirety and existence of Jim at that moment, so much more vulnerable than Sherlock had ever seen the man, and something that had been kept that way for good reason. Jim knew better than to keep his vulnerability at the forefront, for if Sherlock got a hold of it, it would prove disastrous for the both of them and perhaps tons more. In this position, however, the want for Jim to finish him off was far greater than the want to beat him, which wasn't even a want at the moment and wouldn't be for the foreseeable future. To destroy Jim at the moment would be to destroy himself, and the detective was far too selfish for that to become a reality. The fact that he wanted this to be the first of many occurrences was a testament to that, with their roles switched, perhaps. The very thought made him tighten his grip, knowing that the dangerous man at his heels enjoyed it without question, and Sherlock vaguely wondered if he would as well. 

Jim constricting around him was utter torture and pleasure mixed at the same time, and feeling the other pull slightly away, it took all of his willpower to still his hips and bear down on Jim to make him eventually slow and stop, a low whine following to show how difficult it truly was to have to do that, but the payoff would be that much sweeter for the two of them. With a quick look down at Jim with a look in his eyes that said 'trust me', Sherlock placed both hands farther down to grip his arms and tug upwards. Stopping Jim had been nearly impossible perhaps for the both of them, as Sherlock plainly saw what the criminal had been getting up to with his own hand. Bringing Jim up to eye-level and simply gazing at him was enough, and Sherlock could only stand a moment before leaning forward just slightly and pressing a needy kiss to those used, tempting lips. Sherlock was well aware that breaking it off would be torturous for both parties involved and that they were on borrowed time, and the thought occurred that no one had noticed the locked door was a bit too perfect, but it simply meant more painstaking lovely torture before the night would have to inevitably end. 

Breaking the kiss a few moments later, Sherlock finally caught his breath, eyes blown wide and staring at the man before him as a teasing smile came across his face before reconnecting with Jim again, more passion behind it than the first one. He snaked a hand between them, feeling for Jim and feeling the slightest bit victorious when he found him and grasped him, not tightly but just forceful enough. It felt strange for only a moment, as he began with short, uncoordinated and thoughtless strokes, but quickly developed a more steady rhythm, just hoping that Jim was enjoying it as much as Sherlock was. It would be damn near impossible for him not to be, because if Sherlock himself was having this good of a time, the feeling would most likely be mutual. Jim had been a reminder of that far too often.

-

It was at first incomprehensible to Jim that Sherlock should slow them down. There was absolutely no reason for it, when he could see the gorgeous reactions from here and feel Sherlock throb on his tongue, and his own hand suited purpose just fine. But then he understood, and there was the unmistakable shiver of fear at putting himself so perfectly in Sherlock’s hands. But he rose with them so obligingly that some other emotion had won out over it. That was the simplicity and folly in lust, that he wanted Sherlock’s hands enough that it didn’t matter what they did. Something, anything. Not that Sherlock looked very capable of or very interested in any harm at the moment.

The detective’s hunger for excitement of any sort had intensified and devolved into the sort of problem two people could have that Jim knew how to fix, hands sliding to the taller man’s sides before the force of the kiss distracted him utterly. The swipe of Sherlock’s tongue against his own teased a wanton whine from the criminal, who felt he was melting into the detective. At least Sherlock had the advantage of the door at his back – Jim’s knees were less than sturdy, and the look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t helping. It brought back that sliver of fear, that somehow this meant something and Sherlock knew it did, how horrible was that thought? One touch and it didn’t matter. All too thrilled, he twitched against the delicate fingers wrapped around him, and caught Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, almost as hard as he would his own to keep from crying out too obviously. Jim let the kiss slip because his eyes moved helplessly downward.

One glance down at Sherlock’s stroking hand and Jim couldn’t speak, lips parted in an appreciative gasp, eyelids heavy with concentration on the sight, one he never quite was sure would come to pass. Jim couldn’t even manage Sherlock’s name through the breathlessness, only a spasm of the upper lip, all his usual control long gone and not missed, back to teetering on the brink. Only wanted to listen, anyhow, to whatever lovely sounds he could wring from the other with a skilled hand finding Sherlock’s length, fingertips teasing from root to tip, thumb brushing around and over the sensitive tip before his hand circled and squeezed.

The knock on the door shouldn’t have startled Jim, but it did. Trapped, they were trapped in here, his eyes said so when they looked back up at Sherlock, who for the love of Christ had better not even think about stopping what he was doing. “Ignore it,” Jim urged, hissing and rushed, none of his usual practiced patience intact as he leaned to lick at the side of Sherlock’s neck, pant hot breath against it. “And…and be quiet…but…don’t stop….”

-

It was a damn good thing that Jim had complied with the beckoning that Sherlock had offered, because if he had refused, it would have been game over for him the second that mouth was on him again. Pulling the man up provided at least a few seconds to clear the head, which may have proved to be a useless endeavour, because how could either one of them possibly be even remotely coherent at the moment? If anything, the break simply added to the heightened tensions, only prolonging the inevitable, and if it kept Jim on his toes and wanting more, then Sherlock was happy to do so. His own ability to hold out for this long was quite astonishing, though it might have just been the want to avoid the embarrassment that would have come along with only being able to stand a few minutes of the teasing torture from Jim's skilled tongue. 

Seeing the look on the criminal's face as he finally glanced down to watch Sherlock have a go at him was completely and utterly pleasing, something that he would never be able to forget or file away, wouldn't want to do so. Jim's eyes watching the display only made the flicks of his hand speed up, but always with a method behind the madness. A sudden jerk of his hips forward followed as Jim returned the favour, a drawn-out whine accompanied by it as he played from root to tip. His eyes fluttered shut as he nearly forgot about Jim in his own hand but quickly remedied the situation, not needing to see in order to continue the quick but deliberate strokes upon the other.

The sudden knock on the door had Sherlock feeling the slight vibrations against his back before he registered that there was indeed someone on the other side, and they quite possibly wished to come inside. The detective's eyes flew open and he immediately looked to Jim for guidance, not that he should have expected the other to know what to do. Hissed, urgent words made him nod in understanding but also reconsider. Stopping now could incur the wrath from the man leaning against him, and his hand showed no signs of stopping, and that thought was laid to rest. The lap at his neck made it awfully hard to think, but the continued words made all the more sense, and the only solution was to finish as quickly as possible. How they would go about doing that was, of course, an entirely different matter.

An idea of how to help Jim along quickly passed through his mind and rather than consider an alternative, it would have to do for the moment. Clearing his throat quietly, as it was crucial to their staying undetected, Sherlock dropped his voice to the lowest, huskiest tone he could, gripping Jim just a bit tighter as he began to speak. "Come on, then, faster," he breathed right next to Jim's ear, a low moan following to accentuate the statement, making sure not to be overtly loud. "Please, I-I need this...need you..." A desperate undertone was apparent in his voice, and he emphasised the last part with another squeeze and a muffled groan of appreciation. "We were _made_ for each other." Cheesy, oh, all sorts of saccharine and overly sentimental but he rumbled it anyway, hissed through clenched teeth as his head fell to Jim's neck to place biting kisses on too-heated skin.

-

The music, the ineffectual jiggle of the door handle, none were able to distract from the slide of Sherlock’s hand. Not overly slick or skillful, but enough, good god, Jim didn’t need much as his obsession was concerned, and the possibility of detection once someone acquired a key made every passing moment more interesting. His hand sped up as Sherlock’s did, and Jim’s breaths more often than not ended with a growl, unconsciously, control over everything slipping away, such a rare allowance for either of them. It was Sherlock’s pulse beneath his swiping tongue and nipping teeth, Sherlock’s long lovely fingers making him shudder pleasurably, Sherlock _willing_ and _touching_ him. He paused touching Sherlock only long enough to bring his hand to his mouth, spit quickly and returned to task, all the slicker for the interruption.

At the breath on his ear, Jim’s knees buckled, legs trembling and pressing into the taller consultant’s for support; a drawn-out whisper that began with ‘Oh Sh-‘ was aborted as that caressing voice found its way inside of him and twisted, every syllable a slam, a throb, a pulse of heat flaring, pushing him towards the inevitable conclusion. ‘ _Fucking hell, Sherlock, oh_ , _Sherlock,_ _the little death – die with me, darling’;_ it all tumbled from his lips in whispered nonsense syllables, no word quite making it all the way. Heat, heat, their heartbeats pounding in his ears, and he could swear it grew between them, that Sherlock was stoking the fire and feeling it just as intensely in those precious few seconds; Jim squeezed Sherlock reflexively tighter, their knuckles occasionally brushing in the increasingly frantic dance, and he was losing, flares of pleasure punctuated by gasping exhales. His free hand clutched Sherlock’s arse just to have something to hold onto as the pleasure ripped through and out of him, muscles tensing and hips unable to keep still as he burst hot and white over Sherlock’s fingers. Jim’s teeth had bitten harshly but now his lips were parted in an ‘oh’ as close to silence as possible, which wasn’t very, riled and wracked as both they were, riding so simple, attainable and glorious a high.

-

While Jim's neck had been the source of his affections and attention as he continued working him from below, Sherlock pried himself away from it to quickly catch a glimpse of the man's face, curiosity abounding enough to risk the fury that could have come from slowing the pace down just a bit. More than satisfied with the display, with seeing the source of the growls and heaving breaths, he reclaimed his position happily, attaching himself to the inviting flesh again. He nearly growled out of frustration as Jim's hand was removed, delivering the slightest warning in the form of a harder nip though once it returned, lips replaced teeth as he kissed the bite mark, hopefully soothing. It would be a terrible thing to leave marks on the criminal, as his reputation was far more at stake than Sherlock's should someone notice, though at the moment he didn't exactly care, wanted to leave some sort of memento of the night, not that it should slip their minds very easily. With any luck, he would have more opportunities to deliver more, hopefully in various spots adorning Jim's skin.

He'd supported the sudden added weight of the criminal against his knees, a secure arm circled around his waist as he continued the circling elsewhere, enjoying the breaths and words that nearly died in Jim's throat, glad that they at least partly made it out so he was able to appreciate the breathy request. Dying with the man seemed inevitable at the moment, something that he was eagerly attempting to do as well, hips pining steadily faster as his own panting sped up exponentially, driven more when Jim gripped him from behind. He tried to keep up the speed as best as he could, even despite occasionally brushing against the hand on himself, only slowing down when he felt a spasm in his hand coupled with his tightening muscles. It was only shortly after that Sherlock followed, an incomprehensible mix of the criminal's name and a profanity tumbling from his lips as he buried his face in Jim's neck to muffle the yell, feeling an instant high from the sensation.

It was a few seconds before he came up for air again, wanting to bask in the post-high for as long as possible before they inevitably had to break away and deal with the situation at hand. Doing so would be marginally more difficult, considering they'd just been reduced to a moaning mess just moments before, though he did have an entirely clear head now. Breathing slowly returning to normal, Sherlock finally found the willpower to pull away from Jim, albeit begrudgingly though not before pressing a soft kiss to his lips to show his appreciation. Pulling away again, he glanced around the room, hoping that he would find the obvious in a supply closet, pleased when he found what he'd been searching for. He reached for the roll of paper towels and cleaned his hand before offering it to the other, wordlessly dressing himself again and patted his clothing down, looking immaculate considering what had just gone on. He cleared his throat after a moment and exhaled heavily, fixing Jim with a determined expression. "Ready?"

-


	8. all the things we've always done

Reeling, locked to pleasure, and to Sherlock.  Even _feeling_ Sherlock give over had an incredible effect on the criminal, who if still on his knees might have swallowed just this once with relish, and Jim was still breathing harshly and shivering with aftershocks as the soft kiss brushed his lips, assuring and sweet.  Christ.  He blinked dazedly, still leaning on the other for support, but stunned as the body was, his brain was already working on the problem at hand.  Hard to do with a pounding heart, overwhelmed senses and absolute satisfaction, but they needed a reason to be here, and a reason to make the staff want them gone before they could think too hard or ask too many questions.  Okay…okay.  Workable. 

Jim had a plan, and began to psych himself up for it, one hand on the door to feel as well as hear if they were opening it, support as Sherlock moved away, not bothering to control his breathing.  In fact, with short, quick inhalations, made it worse, forcing the start of hyperventilation as he accepted one of the paper towels with a shaky hand.  Oh, trousers a bit ruined…pressed to Sherlock it wouldn’t matter, and he had the jacket nearby to cover, too.  Jim zipped himself up hurriedly, and kept the towel balled in a fist.  Gaze downward, he didn’t look at Sherlock, which at first might have been rather mystifying, but needed to slip his mind somewhere else, something worth the seeming panic.  All these after-effects of pleasure could be turned to other purpose with only the detective the wiser, and Jim was trembling all over, utilizing the body’s natural reactions for his ruse.  At the summons of Sherlock’s voice, he looked up, wide-eyed, ignoring the new knocks at the door, the tinny sounds of keys being rustled.

Whereas Sherlock was already the picture of perfect composure, Jim with his messy hair and strange, desperate expression looked a right mess.  He took Sherlock’s hand with the one not holding the towel, and whispered brokenly, “Mother dying.  Hospital.  Got a text.   Didn’t want to cry in public, but…”  Was that enough for Sherlock to understand the story?  He hoped so, because Jim’s entire face appeared to collapse, and who knew from what depths the good actor drew up real tears?  They welled in his big eyes, leaked from the corners of them, and Jim buried his face in Sherlock’s chest, letting out a loud sob as the finale of this last rehearsal behind the curtains, leading into the first and hopefully only act as heralded by the unmistakable sound of a key in the door.

-

Watching the man come down from his own high was somewhat fascinating to Sherlock, as it gave him an inside look on how exactly Jim was like post-bliss. The circumstances weren't exactly ideal, given the situation, though it was interesting to see anyway. It was a bit worrying when his breathing started to pick up and Sherlock was about to ask if he was truly alright, if in fact he did need to open the door on the other side and call for help. How awkward that would have been, and something Jim would have most likely killed him for later, though it occurred to him afterward that this must have been according to plan. When the criminal looked up at him, he looked positively wrecked and he was certain at that moment that this was all part of what they would do to make their escape, grateful that the other had come up with something so quickly. He would have simply tried to improvise which, in hindsight, would not have been the best plan. 

At the grab of his hand, Sherlock glanced down, not certain if this was part of whatever Jim was scheming though at the whisper, which he leaned in to hear and just barely catching the broken words, it seemed it was. He'd gotten the gist of what he supposed was going to be their story, quickly attempting to fill in the gaps for it right as he got a sudden handful of consulting criminal leaning into his chest. It was entirely believable, fooling even him for a second as he raised his other arm to pat Jim on the back comfortingly, putting on his best concerned expression and moving them a bit away from the door just as it swung open. The detective tried not to look too startled as he glanced over to the door, noticing a distinct lack of music now, signalling the concert had finished, most likely explaining why they were being intruded on. In the frame stood a man and a woman, one of them wearing a red vest and the other in a nice suit. Who he assumed was the manager addressed the two of them first, somewhat annoyed. "Might I ask why you two were locked in the supply closet?" he'd asked, instantly sounding accusatory, though Sherlock couldn't really blame him for being so. The woman at his side was busy peering over his shoulder, trying to assess the situation for herself, he imagined.

Clearing his throat, he put on his best concerned voice, throwing in just a bit of anguish to really sell it to the staff as he glanced down to the form of Jim. "Well, you see, _Patrick_ here has just received some truly devastating news," he started off with, recalling the Morse coded name Jim had attempted to give him at the restaurant earlier for anonymity's sake, patting the man's back for added effect. "We were just enjoying the lovely orchestra when he got a text from his brother saying their mum is in the hospital." A slight catch in his throat as he continued on, gripping Jim's hand in his own to stay in character. "Terminal, unfortunately. We were lucky enough to find a secluded place before he broke down." He looked back to the two staff members, hoping that he'd been believable enough for both them and for Jim.

-

Jim heard the door open, felt the fresh air come waft in – good, it smelled like sex in here, though the amassed cleaning products hid it somewhat – and thought to himself, _Showtime_.  One couldn’t overdo it, of course; he clung to Sherlock and shook, and the sobs were quiet but sounded thick, heartbroken, lost.  At the question, Jim’s head lifted in seeming surprise, ready to apologize for being somewhere they shouldn’t, but when Sherlock began to speak, he relaxed again.  Sherlock had understood, and was handling things just fine – so it would appear too to the staff, though for different reasons.  If Jim smiled, it was well-hidden against fabric, and he used the opportunity to just inhale his beloved distraction’s scent, to feel how that voice rumbled in Sherlock’s chest, to be close to him.  To be patted and spoken nicely about, now, when would that opportunity come again? 

And Sherlock was doing so very well, right down to remembering the earlier alias.  Impressive.  At the word ‘terminal’ Jim let out a sound close to a wail, intended to wring sympathy from the listener or two who were very likely to not have found sex behind the locked door.  For such a dangerous man, he could be awfully disarming when he chose, and finally after a deep but stuttering breath he pulled his head up from Sherlock’s chest, and dabbed ineffectually at his eyes with the corner of the balled-up paper towel.  He didn’t quite turn to the onlookers, speaking to Sherlock shakily.  “I’m sorry, I…didn’t mean to ruin the concert, I…”  Jim was babbling and sniffling like he meant it, and appeared to lose it anew, sinking slightly against Sherlock but turned so that he could glance worriedly at the staff in the door, appearing to wonder, despite all the sorrow, if they were going to get in trouble for having chosen this spot over the lobby.

The matronly usher had by this point lost all the hardness of expression she might have carried when discovering the locked door, and exchanged a meaningful look with the manager, who glanced at the two men with hardly any suspicion left.  “Poor dear,” the woman murmured, giving Sherlock a smile that silently applauded him for being there for Patrick. 

The manager seemed unsure how to handle the likely unprecedented situation.  He paused before speaking.  “Well.  Ah.  My condolences, ah…The show has ended,” he stated softly, “But if you’d like, I can call you gentlemen a cab.” 

The woman beside him sighed.  “Give them a moment, Charles, he’s clearly distraught.”

Jim had by now turned back to Sherlock, and was finally commanding his breathing to slow, an odd cry audible here and there, but as anyone so miserable, fully counted on Sherlock to handle the necessities.  And trusted entirely that he could.  They’d get out of here just fine. 

-

That Jim was taking this little charade so seriously was both a cause for appreciation and warning, and Sherlock found himself asking why exactly he had been so good at instantly faking and calling up this persona. He recalled Jim from I.T., and he'd been easily fooled by it back then, much to the man's entertainment, he imagined. Those acting skills were crucial at the moment now, though, and it was more adoration than suspicion that he was currently addressing Jim with. Even down to the subtle shakes, he was certainly dedicated to the role, and Sherlock only hoped he was doing as well a job as the disheveled man was. Given that the staff members' faces were both equally softening, it seemed they were doing a believable job. He supposed they should have felt bad for deceiving the pair, though he was more caught up in the fun of putting on the act and of not wanting to be found out than the need to feel guilty for lying. Should they have found out what had really been going on inside the closet, he would have felt a lot worse.

The sudden cry from below him made him look down in surprise, detaching his hand from Jim's so that he could properly embrace him. When he spoke, it was almost heart-wrenchingly sad to listen, and he had to try not to grin when the pair at the door was eating it up. He bent down a bit to murmur in the other's ear, though obviously spoke loud enough to be heard. "Shh, you didn't ruin anything, Pat," he delivered in a sickeningly sweet voice, throwing in the affectionate name for good measure. "I only hope we can make it to the hospital on time." He'd meant to sound wistful, though also hopeless, casting a glance back at the man and woman and shaking his head sadly. He returned the smile sympathetically to the older woman, nodding along with it. 

The offer of a cab wouldn't do and Sherlock quickly put the thought to rest for the manager. "Oh, no, that's quite alright. We drove. Thank you, though." He'd hoped that would deter him from pressing the matter, and the relaxing of his posture seemed to indicate that it had. "We were just about to head there anyway..." He glanced down at Jim again, though just seeing the jacket that had been thrown off and landed on the stack of chairs, his heart skipped a beat, though it went undetected in his voice. "Sorry for the interruption," he'd directed toward the manager with an apologetic smile. That had seemed good enough for him and the staff member nodded back in response, already going to turn away.

A split second after he had, the detective detached himself from Jim and reached for the jacket, fully aware that the woman was still watching them. Gently throwing it across the criminal's shoulders, he looked up at her. "Nearly threw himself a fit," was the explanation given to her, and she cooed in pity. "I wish your mum a full recovery," she'd said softly, reaching out to pat Jim on the shoulder comfortingly.

Sherlock thanked her for them both, placing a hand on the man's opposite arm to lead him out of the closet, turning once again to wave at the two staff members. He leaned down, still in their line of sight to whisper in Jim's ear. "Good act, Pat." He didn't let go until they were safely a distance from them in the lobby.

-

This had become not just a useful deception, but an amusing one: Sherlock’s chest was a comfortable place to compose himself entirely, and were it not for the necessary lie, no circumstances imaginable could have prompted such tender contact. It hadn’t been all that difficult to leap from one emotional high to another, and provided just enough time to bring himself back around from their activities of only minutes before. And wasn’t Sherlock just so sweet when he wished to be, setting the jacket so carefully on the Irishman’s shoulders, while Jim kept his features lax with the weight of imagined sorrows. When it came down to it, they made a good team, and performing with Sherlock as audience was perhaps the only incentive not to laugh when the woman wished them well, and patted ‘Pat’. He barely felt it, muttering a perfunctory, broken ‘thank you’ - focused more on maintaining the façade, nodding dumbly, hands squeezing pockets to be sure of their contents after the garment had been in Sherlock’s sly hands.

Jim shuffled, head down and sniffling, as Sherlock led them out. Once in the lobby, he tossed the paper towel into the first available waste bin, and had to fight a smile at Sherlock’s words. The admiration was mutual, of course. How many would appreciate the art in Sherlock’s ability to deceive, fully aware it was occurring? It could just as easily be a factor to worry about, but at the moment, Jim couldn’t be arsed to let his brain run with the thought. As soon as Sherlock released the steadying hold, Jim slipped the jacket off of his shoulders and over an arm, spine straightening taller, eyes red but no longer leaking. “Thank you, darling,” he murmured, making towards the door at a brisker pace, but turning to wink at Sherlock, “Not so bad yourself.” Jim actually had it in mind to kiss him senseless at first opportunity, but waiting for the relative privacy of the car was without a doubt the wisest option.

Jim held the door for Sherlock on their way out, and all but bounded down the stairs to hand the valet the ticket for the Aston Martin, a spring in his step. Between the music, cleverness, stress release, the fun of a good lie and Sherlock at his side – well, it was as close to perfect as any evening could be, and that was bothersome insofar as he shouldn’t, couldn’t get used to it. Not a new realization, but as horrible as ever. It prompted the criminal to pause, brow furrowing slightly. He watched Sherlock draw a cigarette from the pack but Jim aborted the attempt by reaching for his lapel, tugging him nearer, leaning up to bestow upon the detective a brush of a kiss. It was that, or voice unasked, unaskable questions: _Where to next? - We shouldn’t spend the night together, right? - To what end?_

But he could already hear the answer in his head, in Sherlock’s velvet voice: _You tell me._

He met Sherlock’s eyes and ah, there – like a lightbulb switching on in his head, the realization dawned. That all the forfeited game pieces, all the puzzles, had by some stroke of fate gotten him somewhere. That the hellion side of Sherlock Holmes was his, and that Jim could do whatever he liked with him. Now it was tested as well as true. He released Sherlock and stepped back enough to allow them breathing space, but never entirely took his eyes off the other, reclaiming the loosely-held cigarette pack and returning it swiftly to his own pocket. Supply closet pleasures aside, his prints were all over it.

“Back to house arrest, then?” Jim asked, curious but dark, a near-taunting roundabout way of inquiring as to how Sherlock envisioned the rest of the evening. He knew that the stars could be very pretty from the roof of St. Bart’s at night, just as he knew Sherlock probably had more hideaways than even Jim knew about. It was more to figure out whether they couldn’t get away from each other fast enough, or if they’d never be able to again.

-

Showing such tender love and genuine worry or concern for another human being was something that Sherlock simply was not used to - would never grow used to it, no matter how many times he may do so in the future. Why, then, was it so easy for him to do so with a man as lacking compassion nearly as much as himself? It could be because it was just a farce, something that he was required to do for Jim to get them out of there un-arrested and non-pursued. How much of it was real and how much was an act was a mystery, even to himself - best that it remained mixed rather than show itself in an inopportune time such as making their escape. Jim had to be enjoying it, being fawned over even in deception. Rare and unnecessary for either of them to show tenderness, especially in public though when the opportunity arose, both obviously took advantage of it - starved for attention, desperate to give that attention. A good team they did indeed make.

He had only a moment to appreciate the compliment received back from Jim - quite a high one, coming from someone obviously well-versed in playing a multitude of characters - before joining him in the brisk retreat from the venue, glad to finally be outside and away from the danger. A lovely way to spend the evening, Sherlock had to admit, but it was so much better being able to properly enjoy it rather than having to explain one's way out of being locked together in a closet to staff members and the manager. Probably would be best not to show either of their faces around there for a while, just as a precaution. He couldn't help but smile as he watched Jim descend the stairs, and if Sherlock didn't know him any better, he could almost say the man was happy.

All of the excitement about getting off, literally and figuratively had distracted him from the after prize and he immediately dove his hand inside his pocket for the pack of treasure. He had just tapped the pack and was about to reach into a pocket again to locate the lighter but was cut off by a obviously very grateful Jim, and Sherlock returned the show of appreciation in the kiss as well by a quick swipe of his tongue at the criminal's lips, the kiss over just seconds later. Good, good. Wasn't a good idea to start snogging right outside the venue when they were supposed to be on their way to the hospital, after all. Just noticing that the pack had been stolen back, Sherlock couldn't find it in him to be upset - they were nothing compared to what he'd experienced just ten minutes before, and therefore could hardly fault the man.

The question made the detective close his eyes, in deep thought over exactly what Jim was asking him. Going back to John, then? Spending the rest of the evening together, then? Two questions that were implied from the single one, and ones that he wasn't entirely sure how to answer. Yes, back to house arrest and dear old boring John and sickeningly sweet Mrs. Hudson. No, spending the night with delightfully interesting Jim, the man who had made him nearly see stars just a short time ago. The answer seemed obvious, though that may have just been the addict in him making the decision for him, in which case he wasn't about to argue. Though it was useless to do so unless the sentiment was shared. 

"I'm already in trouble for the evening. Might as well see what other trouble I can get into." He'd looked at Jim whilst saying it, obvious as to what exactly he was referring to. Though the decision was still left up to the other man; he could easily drop Sherlock off at his own flat and be done with him for the evening, little bout of fun gotten out of their systems and he wouldn't blame the criminal if he did. Though, if he knew anything about Jim, that option would be unthinkable, but Sherlock would give him both the benefit of the doubt and the ultimate decision.

-

Well, wasn't that nice. Not that Jim had truly expected Sherlock to choose a dull, belittling night in with the doctor over this, but it was always good to be certain. This evening had undoubtedly cleared up some of the conflict, at least in regards to being able to trust Sherlock, and his intentions. And the dear detective was using euphemisms now - this fact was just as fun as the idea it presented. Well. Almost.

"Oh?" Jim asked, a genuine and amused smile replacing all traces of aggravation or derision, gaze sliding over the man who from head to toe looked better composed than he had any right to be, after what had happened in the supply closet; certainly better than Jim who, with a stain any dry cleaner would gripe about and the messy hair and red eyes of one who'd sought comfort, screamed dishevelment. If Sherlock didn't mind, nor did Jim, whose fascination with and lust for the detective was ever-present. Trouble could, of course, mean anything, but Jim was fully capable of creating or embodying any brand of it. Sherlock need only pick his poison - short of Jim taking Sherlock to work with him, the consulting criminal would all too willingly oblige him. Tease, torment, make life hell for a day or a week or a month, sure - but in the end...In the end, it would always come down to a brief, teasing flash of tongue, and lilting promises such as, "Well, I doubt you'll have to look very far."

Out of his periphery he spotted the Aston Martin turning the corner and slowing, arriving to be reclaimed by its rightful owner and driven...where? There were a few options that Jim mulled over even as he continued to enjoy looking at Sherlock, fighting the urge to pull him in for another appreciative kiss. He couldn't delude himself into believing he trusted Sherlock in the place he called Home, but there were other places. He owned establishments of all kinds; had access to just about anywhere he pleased; and kept several apartments, some for employees, some for out-of-town clients, some for himself. The idea of stargazing atop Bart's rooftop was a fun one, but Sherlock, it would seem, had other ideas - even if he didn't, running into a late-shift-working Molly would be riotously funny for all the wrong reasons.  

Somewhere more private, then. One of Jim's apartments, and with no reason to impress upon the detective that it was one of many. He might keep it as Their place, or abandon it the next day, if only to picture Sherlock's face upon finding it empty should he ever pay a surprise visit. It all depended on how things went between them, but Jim could see no harm in it. Whereas it might have been daunting before, being alone with Sherlock rather than shrouded in the relative safety of a public place, now it put a certain gleam in Jim's dark eyes. He could always order Sebastian to be nearby, but that was hardly fair or, Jim reckoned, all that necessary. While Jim applied care and planning and certainty to all his business projects, life itself was nothing without the occasional risk - something only one person on this entire planet was able to provide the otherwise untouchable consulting criminal.

Sherlock's mist and Jim's conflicts - where had they fled? Of course this was a fragile and impermanent peace, the sort that excellent music and satisfying handjobs created. In that case, carpe noctem. Jim fumbled in a coat pocket and came up with a fistful of bills, barely glancing at them as he selected a few for the valet and put the rest back. The cigarette pack, too, he extracted, and tugged one from it, handing it to Sherlock with a confident smile before turning to walk to the waiting car.

-


	9. the only roads are cul-de-sacs, the only ends are dead

It would be a shame if he wasn't able to count on the criminal to provide a bit of trouble for him. Distraction, trouble, a relief for the boredom - all little annoyances that Sherlock had found the ultimate prize in order to solve them. He could only hope that Jim felt the same way about him, though if he didn't, they obviously would not be standing on the side of the street, waiting for the man's car and to go god knows where just yet. He imagined that the decision would be ultimately left up to him; after all, he'd planned this little night out but had never expected it to happen like this. A happy accident, perhaps, or a blessing in disguise - they'd nearly been caught and it set his heart racing, nearly always an after-effect of being around James Moriarty for too long. He suspected that the man knew this and did such things as pull him into a public closet and suck him off just to keep things interesting, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.

The criminal's answer simply made him crack a smile, knowing that they were in fact on the same page, as much as Jim had denied it in their first texts to each other. That seemed so long ago now, when it had really only been a few weeks, and damn if they didn't move quickly. It was their nature, however, as they were impulsive, fairly hedonistic men. They found pleasure in far different vices, of course, but it was inevitable for those vices to eventually morph into one another. Sherlock had held back far too long on - he had used the right word before - indulging himself that he had jumped at the first opportunity Jim had provided him with. And now, as it was, they would quite possibly be on their way to a remote location. Not the consultant's home, no; he would never expect that and would immediately ask what had happened to the actual Jim should he ever offer. But somewhere private, secluded, much like the two themselves.

As the car came around the corner, Sherlock realised that he had to make a decision quickly on where they would be bound for. He mulled the possibilities over in his mind - his flat was out of the question, but oh, wouldn't it be so amusing to show up with Jim on his arm to a waiting doctor? The appeal nearly made him reconsider, though it wouldn't have ended well for any party if they decided to do so, even if Jim would get a kick out of it. He watched with appreciation as Jim paid the valet, not expecting the cigarette pack to make an appearance and his heart to skip a beat as it did. He nearly pulled the man into another kiss as he was handed a single cigarette, though there would be plenty of time for that later and he desperately needed one more than the other at that moment, as Jim surely understood.

He was a bit wary about smoking in the car, though if he'd been offered one, it must have been encouraged and he was already pulling the lighter from his pocket and bringing it to the end of the cigarette as he followed Jim to the car, sinking into the seat as he exhaled the first bit of smoke. "So," the detective began, savouring the smoky air around him. "I can only imagine we'll be going back to your place, hm?" He'd turned to face Jim as he said it, eyebrows raised expectantly as he waited for confirmation. Not expecting it, as it was still Jim's call, but throwing out a suggestion nonetheless. Sherlock could take control when he wanted to, or when he was given the opportunity, as had already happened that night, though he was also well aware of when to relinquish that control for his benefit as well, and this was obviously one of those times.

-

Sliding into the driver's seat, the criminal caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, and laughed under his breath.  Smoothing his hair back with a swipe of his hand, he craned his neck, curious to see whether Sherlock had left marks.  A light pink line from a graze of teeth, but nothing worse - pity.  To be remedied at once, Jim decided, the very thought making it difficult to rid himself of the smile.  It could be a full week before his characteristic grimace slid back into place; this state would be sure to baffle and unnerve clients and underlings alike, and that was always fun.  

Still, Jim attempted to control it, clearing his throat and straightening in the leather seat as Sherlock eased in beside him.  Turning the key in the lock with one hand and rolling down the passenger window with the other, Jim reasoned that the smoke was tolerable.  He might not drive this car for weeks, and in fact would have the license plates changed tomorrow.  It wasn't so much that he expected Sherlock to utilize privileged information, but if the detective was amused with the idea that he could, Jim would make it very clear that he couldn't.  Games within games, friendly fire - any less, if tested, would be a crushing disappointment to them both.

"If you're amenable to that," Jim confirmed, casting Sherlock a smile that implied he knew just how curious the detective must be.  "Hardly as if we can go to yours."  Setting his attention to the street before them, Jim put the purring vehicle back in motion, accepting the traces of secondhand smoke as a scent he might be unable to disassociate from the man beside him.  If one compared the present Jim to the woeful Patrick of minutes before, they would think it two different people entirely - there was no reason to discuss how smoothly they'd escaped outside the compliments already granted, and it was better to focus on the drive to the Aldgate tower block than to make idle conversation.  But there remained something irresistible about the close confines and presence, and Jim's left hand found its way to just above Sherlock's knee - nails grazing through the fabric, hand warm and unwilling to let Sherlock forget that, despite all necessity and appearances of the moment, Jim's thoughts never strayed far from him.  

-

The detective felt the slightest twinge of guilt at Jim's words, though he couldn't exactly refute them. He had a roommate that the man he'd just shared a supply closet with in private had strapped a bomb to - it wasn't as if he could take him home and expect everything to be peachy. Of course, Jim from I.T. would be a different story, if all that nasty business with the bomb hadn't have taken place, but then Sherlock wouldn't have taken the interest he did in the criminal if it hadn't. Everything happened for a reason, apparently, and there was definitely a reason why Sherlock was sitting in Jim's car, waiting to be taken back to the man's most likely one-of-many apartments.

He sighed, taking another drag from the cigarette and shrugging. "Yes, well, can't go at it with you-know-who in the next room, unfortunately," he lamented with an apologetic smile towards Jim. "He won't be nearly as merciful towards your mum-in-the-hospital act." A bit of harmless teasing, really, as their performance deserved just the tiniest bit of credit. They could have royally screwed themselves at the concert hall, but he was almost certain that the man wouldn't have allowed that to happen. It wouldn't have been nearly as fun to enjoy each other's company in a prison cell and Mycroft would most likely have him imprisoned just for even being in proximity of the criminal. 

The view outside of his window had been preoccupying Sherlock, as he was rather curious to see where exactly one of the apartments was kept - in a highly upscale part of the city, it seemed - though the warmth on his thigh made the detective turn to glance down, amused at the hand currently resting there. It was pleasant, feeling the slightest graze of Jim's nails against his skin, remembering how they had felt on his bare flesh rather than with a layer of clothing separating it. Switching the cigarette to the other hand, he was just about to cover Jim's with his own when the all-too familiar buzzing of his phone sounded in his pocket, ringing more than once to indicate that it wasn't a text, but a call, a fact that Sherlock immediately responded to with a sigh.

Expecting the call to be from John, his brows shot up in surprise as the called ID read _Lestrade._ Turning to Jim immediately and holding his index finger up to his lips, he answered and held the phone up to his ear. "What?" he'd barked into the receiver, really not in the mood to play any games with the detective inspector at the moment. Lestrade had come across something that obviously was not one of Jim's works, unless the man was a brilliant multi-tasker, and though it did sound interesting enough, Sherlock considered turning it down, as the most interesting case of his life was already next to him, with his hand dangerously close. That would have been suspicious, though, wouldn't it? And so, with a heavy sigh, he nodded as the last of the details were explained, bringing the cigarette to his lips before he answered. "Fine, I'll be there soon," was the only response as he hung up on the man, turning to face Jim again. "This is completely against my better judgment, but that was the Yard." He hoped that explained it enough, as he truly did not wish to say 'we've got to cut this short because of the incompetence of the police'.

-

Such blunt words from Sherlock shouldn't have surprised his nemesis-turned-lover, but they did.  Enough to make Jim's eyebrows raise, his heart skip a beat, and that smile to overtake his expressive face again, blinking rapidly as if to shake off the effect of the unexpected straightforwardness, and the sudden mental image that came with it.  So much for euphemisms!  

Of course, he couldn't be bothered to care about John Watson's mercy or lack thereof - but Sherlock did.  This baffled Jim at times.  At others it defeated him, amused him, angered him, or made him wonder what it would really take to sever that tie - whether he could at all...It was wrong thinking, ugly and useless.  Sherlock had had a clear choice laid before him for the night, and had chosen Jim - that meant something, didn't it?  Or nothing at all; merely one more expression of Sherlock's constant need to rebel, one more little thorn in everyone's side, one more haughty little Fuck You to the world and all it deemed acceptable.

Jim preferred to think that it meant something.  Meant enough.

From the periphery of his vision, he saw Sherlock's phone appear, and the request for quiet.  Jim heeded this, licking his lips in thought - it was a wonder they'd managed to get away uninterrupted for this long, frankly, but that didn't make the interruption any more welcome.  Jim was curious in what form it would come, but couldn't hear much through the phone pressed to Sherlock's ear.  If he was upset by Sherlock promise to be somewhere soon, he attempted not to show it, the hand above the detective's knee still idly stroking, tempting, as they waited out a red light.  

Of course, of course.  It just figured, didn't it?  To be greedy with each other's time would be a sure failure, but all the same, Jim found himself fighting a sense of disappointment at the news.  Which was, in all honesty, absurd - the night had been perfect as it was, and wasn't it better to leave Sherlock wanting more?  As Jim put the vehicle back in motion, cold, hard logic strode in to say that if the DI couldn't secure Sherlock, John would be informed of the fact, and a sudden bout of panic might travel all the way up the line to the relentless Big Brother.  Of all the things Jim may or may not want up his arse tonight, the British government was not one of them.  

"Well," Jim stated, the single syllable heavy with finality, his left hand returning to take extra control of the wheel.  "If _you're_ being called in, I should probably check on the state of my...various ventures..." The words trailed into little more than a distracted murmur, the drop in tone and thoughtful half-frown deliberate.  If the case was easily solved, Sherlock might regret parting from Jim; if it wasn't, he might wonder whether the criminal had ulterior motives in keeping him busy all evening.  Not so much destructive as Keeping Things Interesting.  

In truth, it was fine.  Jim could use a shower, and indeed, to inquire as to the successes or failings of current projects - moreover, it would allow each consultant's hunger for the other to spike anew, and simmer beautifully.  No rush.  Of course, he had no interest in placing himself within spitting distance of the Yard, all their characteristic ineptitude aside.  "So, dearest - taxi or tube?"

-

Oh, he could just about kill Lestrade and whoever had committed the crime that they were oh-so desperate for his assistance. Finally, time to himself to choose how he wanted to spend it, and a much better alternative than what he had done before Jim had came into the picture. Still, Sherlock had a job, however much that was currently interfering with personal ventures and was it ever. He couldn't very well refuse to do his job, just as if something had come up on Jim's end, he would have done the same thing. They were both well aware of the fact that the business came first, a fact that he hoped would remain in the criminal's mind and wouldn't be too upset at him for. Considering it wasn't similar to last time, where the mere presence of John alone had brought their night to a crashing halt; he had been willing to go to Jim's, remain uninterrupted by pressing flatmates.

The phone remained in his hand as he stared at it for a few moments, mind racing to any possibility that he could accomplish both tasks - have his cake and eat it too, so to say. Though, with a resounding sigh, the detective knew it was for the better to simply end the night on a, frankly, perfect note. Too much of Jim might have spoiled him, and really, it would make it all the more satisfying the next time they'd get together. The man at his right seemed to realise this as well, shown in the retracted hand and damn if the absence of warmth didn't make Sherlock shiver. A mention of Jim's 'various ventures' was amusing in and of itself, and something he knew he should have inquired about, but he had already been called in for the night. This was his personal life, not his professional life, and he would not let the two mix, even if they already had.

If Jim was disappointed, he was excellent at hiding it. But, then, they had just acted their way out of going to prison for the night, and so the man could very well have been so. Asking would be futile and stupid. This was most likely the happiest Sherlock would ever see the criminal and ruining it would have been asinine on his part, no matter how curious he was as to the effect he had on Jim. Besides, he had somewhere to be at the moment, and getting caught up spending even another moment with his favourite distraction might have just been convincing enough to change his mind. "Taxi," he answered, sounding just slightly bitter about it. "It'll make them wait a bit and I at least deserve enough time to say a proper goodbye." He didn't in the slightest, really, but wasn't that the funny thing about grandeur?

-

Jim nodded slightly at the decision, and as he drove mulled carefully over Sherlock's choice of words.  Not 'should have', not 'will have', but Deserve.  It was difficult to pinpoint what it would take to once and for all convince the criminal that what was happening between them wasn't a constant build towards deception, but even the slightest hints might warm his wary mind to the authenticity of their rather delicate situation.  But he often called his own authenticity into question, for while Jim could picture going to bed with Sherlock, he found it close to impossible to imagine waking up beside him.  

A quandary for another day, so sayeth the siren song of crime.  Perhaps the Universe was letting them off easy.  Believing as much was painless compared to dwelling on missed opportunities, and there was no sense in prolonging the inevitable, or even for Sherlock to have a Need-To-Know Basis address.  He slowed the Aston Martin, rolling it to a stop at the first available parking spot along a street busy enough for cabs.  He braked and let it idle, finally turning to give Sherlock the attention due whatever passed for a 'proper goodbye.'  Like they wouldn't be texting at the first hint of boredom, anyhow.  

There was a touch of deja vu to the moment, Sherlock leaving Jim in a car and too soon, but the difference as to Why was appreciable.  The Irishman hummed, his cheek almost pressed to the headrest as he gave Sherlock a lazy smile, keeping to his own space: it gave Sherlock a chance to start putting his brain elsewhere, or to close the gap.  Jim was admittedly curious as to which would be deemed more necessary.  "Parting is such sweet sorrow," he quoted softly and only half-facetiously, gaze roaming Sherlock's striking face and brilliant eyes as he spoke.  "But..." He'd locked onto the sight of Sherlock's lips somehow, and quite forgotten his words, if not the sentiments behind them.  

-

The next time the two consultants got together, Sherlock had to make sure that absolutely nothing was occurring and possibly even shut his phone off, as the interruptions were becoming sort of a pattern. Harmless enough as it was now, though if it happened again, he could only imagine what Jim would start to think. Intentional, on the detective's part, perhaps, to get out of a potentially sticky situation. Though, in truth, it was simply bad luck on his part, or it might have been disguised as good luck tonight. There was obviously something appealing about him that made the criminal keep wanting to come back for more, and Sherlock could obviously pinpoint why he was drawn to the man - looks, intelligence, unpredictability. Jim certainly knew the path to Sherlock's non-existent heart.

Still, it was melancholic enough, driving to yet again end the night before it could truly begin. And wasn't it thoughtful of Jim, driving him to the best place to find a cab? Risky and stupid for him to drive him straight to the Yard, and something Sherlock would never ask of him anyway. Jim was his well-kept secret for now, one that he didn't mind stranger-acquaintances like Angelo knowing about but would cringe if the word got out to Mycroft, or even Molly. How would it look in her eyes, he wondered. A question that he would hopefully never find out the answer to, especially if Jim had something to say about it.

The cigarette had been finished long ago, though the remainder of it still remained held in his long fingers, not even thinking to discard it. Other, more pressing issues were on the detective's mind. As the car rolled to a stop, Sherlock hesitated turning to leave just yet, well aware of the soulless eyes fixed on him. He turned to face the man, breath catching for just a moment at the sight. How he would be able to walk away from the captivating criminal was a damn mystery. The smile was returned as Jim recited the quote and Sherlock leaned in a bit, eyebrows raising expectantly. "But...?" he encouraged, eyes drifting slowly, inevitably down to the criminal's what he now knew were skillful lips.

-

That.  That right there, Sherlock looking at him like that, not the harsh scalpel of the deductive process, but something altogether softer, a different kind of curiosity (that could only be sated by Jim finishing the thought)...well, it could damn near take a man's breath away.  Could make his body temperature rise a few degrees, could widen pupils, could press Pause on time itself.  Could and did.   
  
Jim exhaled a subconsciously held breath, barely lifting the side of his forehead from the press of the leather.  He'd gotten stuck on words that would've thanked Sherlock for the evening out - better left to impersonal means, a promise being easier to give than gratitude.  Right now all words paled in lieu of the kiss Jim was certainly asking for, if the still-parted lips and the undeniably adoring way he looked at the other were any indication.  Logic replaced yet again with this longing.  Nearly insatiable, nearly enough to make him want to bomb Scotland Yard so it'd worry about something else --- patience...  
  
It was so important to remember patience, or would be when it mattered most.  Jim seemed conscious of only one thing at present, his own face tilting up to meet Sherlock's, finishing the thought with a deep-murmured and mirthful, "Consider this an I O U from trouble."

-

One of Sherlock's arguably favourite things about Jim was his ability to be so expressive, without really expressing any emotion at all. The black eyes were just lit enough to show some shimmer of emotion, and it was the first time that Sherlock could recall actually being looked at with adoration. He'd seen wonder and amazement from John, genuine love from Molly, even complete hatred from Donovan. But what Jim reserved for him...Sherlock had to appreciate that. And had to show that appreciation in whatever ways he possibly could.

The softening of his look was one that was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, one that he hoped Jim had caught, and he moved nearly in sync as the criminal did, as everything else they did was nearly in sync as well. It was part of their whole routine, really, and if they weren't completely in step, one of them was surely left to fall behind. And how could he resist those so talented, currently parted lips? All for him, at the moment, and he hoped would stay that way for a while. He was just about an inch away from connecting, from saying an apology without words. Jim's finishing thought was enough to make him smile, hidden from view by the proximity and so Sherlock said his thanks by closing his eyes and closing the distance.

It was submissive at the core, in the way the detective tipped his head at the slightest angle, and more appreciative than animalistic. He gracefully deepened it at the first opportunity that presented itself, wanting to show just how much he was going to regret leaving the man tonight, shown in the form of a tongue prodding at Jim's bottom lip, silently asking for permission to show his thanks even more, the hand not holding the remainder of the cigarette reaching up to cup Jim's stunning face.

-

The moment of connection came slowly but at last, a brief and pleasant shiver accompanying it.  Sighing in answer to the silent question, he savored the brush of Sherlock's tongue, his own sliding against it, tasting cigarettes almost too intensely but not caring.  The careful fingers spreading across his skin struck Jim as almost unbearably sweet, even frightening in how easily the touch could make him want to drop the mask of non-disappointment, want to stay like this for hours if possible.  He reached up to make Sherlock feel it, too, thumb caressing over high cheekbone, fingertips sliding into the lustrous, wild curls.  Tentative at first but then flexing, gripping as if to keep Sherlock there awhile, keep them locked together.  

A purr sounded in his throat, but when Jim could feel himself tilting bodily closer, he knew they weren't doing their respective productivity any favors, and had to be stopped.  The fingers against Sherlock's scalp relaxed, and Jim's lips pursed around Sherlock's tongue then begrudgingly released it.  His palm slid warm down the other's long neck, and he smiled in a way that almost reached his eyes when they opened. "Off you go, then," he encouraged lightly with raised eyebroes and a nod - though it was the exact opposite of what he truly wanted - hand moving away from Sherlock and shooing in the direction of the car door.  Jim had accustomed himself to the detective's absence; the DI and his merry band of bunglers might not be so forgiving, and it was too early in the game for either to shirk responsibility without arousing suspicions.  Sherlock himself was a calculated and worthy risk.  Losing Sherlock was not.  

-

Damn everything that wasn't Jim at that moment - the Yard, the knowledge that this can not last forever, and damn Jim himself for tempting Sherlock to stay with him. It wasn't a goodbye kiss but more of a look-what-you're-going-to-be-missing kiss, complimentary of the criminal himself. Still, he couldn't find it in him to complain, not with the way the man's fingers curled into his hair, and damn if Sherlock didn't feel like he was going to be missed. The barely audible purr definitely made the detective react and he considered climbing over onto Jim's lap to _properly_ kiss him goodbye, but that would have been a terrible tease for both of them and Jim would probably hate him for a week if he did so and then ended it there.

It had to come to an end sometime, sooner rather than later, as it always did. Sherlock stayed there a moment after Jim pulled away, simply staring at the man as he kept him locked there for a minute, knowing that there was nothing he would rather do than call Lestrade back, tell him to piss off and go home with the wondrous man. He couldn't, though; he knew it and Jim knew it and it was why he placed a hand on the handle of the car door before he could change his mind. As much as Sherlock didn't currently want to admit to it, or even abide by it at the moment, he had a reputation to maintain and he couldn't very well accomplish that from Jim's bed. Reluctantly, he climbed out of the car and finally flicked the last of the cigarette away, the last of the night away, really. He hesitated before closing the door, though, and leaned in. "Until next time, Patrick," were his final words as he gave a smile to the criminal, sadness evident in his expression but closed the door before Jim could respond, walking away from the Aston Martin without a glance back.

As entertaining as the night had been, he now had to focus his attention on some other dull case, and wasn't that just disappointing though Sherlock would never forget the looks on the Yard team's faces as he strolled into the crime scene, a faint smile permanently fixed on his face and acting just the slightest bit more cordial towards even the most annoying, albeit perplexed forensic scientist on the team.

-

The divergent course the evening had taken was decidedly worth it, to see the twinge of regret in Sherlock's smile.  It spoke volumes of all that the self-controlled criminal was unwilling to show of his own quiet disappointment.  But as nights went, and comparing this one to other, more lonely ones...Jim could only see it as a success that not so long ago seemed impossible.  Tempted, intrigued, eager - oh, yes.  But overall, rather satisfied, and that was more than could be said of most nights.  Of course he shouldn't get too attached to the whole idea, and wouldn't.  He knew better.  Knew any wrong move could send this to hell in a handbasket, and for that eventuality, the mastermind could be prepared and just as eager.  It was, after all, the basis of the initial plans.  But for now, to savor the present was a rare high, one that kept the almost dreamy look on his face even as he forced himself to register that Sherlock was really sliding out of the car, leaving him to his own devices.  

Jim stayed parked longer than necessary, watching Sherlock flag down a cab in what had to be record time, and as the lithe figure disappeared into the backseat, the criminal smiled and whispered, "'Til next time, William." The name was foreign on his tongue in relation to the detective, but knowledge was power - something Jim felt the need to regather at once, yet made no sudden moves towards doing so.  

A full minute passed in reverie before he plucked the jacket up from his leg where it had landed, tossing it on the now-empty passenger seat, and rolled up the window again.  That he should check for texts or missed calls was a distressing notion and so Jim put it off a little while longer, reaching instead for the stereo.  Nobody discerning around now to give him a funny look for the CD in it, nor the ear-splitting volume which at times he preferred.  Anonymity by virtue of vehicular privacy, just one more person crawling through traffic to get home; but perhaps the only one finding such reasons to smile in the lyrics of 'Bad Romance' as they drove, and hummed along.

 

**To Be Continued...  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What WILL these lovesick puppies get up to next? Part 3 is currently in the works. :) Just a short hiatus. Er, shorter than some hiatuses. 
> 
> You guys' comments give us life. Thank you all so much for the feedback.


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